a confession involving an involuntary shout out to the lady parts. {whoops.}

I read somewhere, probably in paranoia parent’s magazine, or some raise-your-children-right-so-they-don’t-grow-up-to-be-complete-psychopaths-book, that you, as the parent, are expected to refer to the correct words and names of your children’s, eh, parts.

Did I just go there?

Yes. Yes I did.

I am about to broach a taboo topic in the mass of overly chartered waters for parental preferences, world wide.

Because we all know it’s easier said than done. It’s kind of like driving around your old car forever, until you can afford a new one, and you’re all, lusting over the potentially shiny new wheels. But the inside of your current ride looks like a frat party thrown by twenty toddlers high on breast milk. And you’re all, “When I get a new car, that actually has room for my three children, I will never trash it. I shall keep it sparking clean, as if daily polished by house elves.” Before you know it, you’re all sporting your new swagger wagon, and after a month, it’s not just a frat party. It’s a rave. Thrown by your two year old for all the neighborhood kids. It has smashed cheerios, misplaced pacies, and curdled, milk filled juice cups galore, just waiting to be rediscovered. The kids totally think it’s a game. They’re all, “take that, suckas!” while they hide junk and then wail about it. Extra points for curdled milk!

(Ahem.) I’m not saying that’s ever happened to me. BUT I would be extremely empathetic if that happened to anyone I know. Because I’m good at empathy…it’s a spiritual gift.

SO, welcome to parenthood.

It’s like watching a train wreck of all the things you SAID you were going to do…but alas, you are ALWAYS. FALLING. SHORT. Sure, you feed your kid broccoli for snacks, brush their hair, and have them in bed by 7 p.m. sharp, topped off with five BIBLE stories, along with a recited verse (even though they’re a year old, so they do it via baby sign language.) Awe. Congratulations. You are an expert. Now I quadruple dog DARE you to have more than one. Yeah. You’re not so savvy now, are ya? Sorry, but this is an overwhelmed version of me, laughing in my own FACE three short years later.

My life has become the recurring dream of running in slow mo with the bad guys in the background inching up on me ever so slightly. I fold all the laundry, and then it magically reappears a-la poltergeist three seconds later when I turn around. Suddenly I’m the chick walking in a haze through walmart, while people give me the death stare, because all three of my kids are wailing like murderous banshees on crack. There’s cartons of milk and captain crunch exploding in slow mo, (stay with me: enhancing the drama) in my wake, along with the ever present stench of poo. And before I had them…I used to want to slap THAT mom for not paying attention.

And now I know better. She’s paying attention. Just enough to function. But the reality of her life has made her so completely numb that she is comforted by memories of the glory days of college, and how much skinnier her legs used to be. She lives there, in that pretty place in her brain, a-la denialville, where her biggest worry is whether or not she should skip class and LAY OUT, or go shopping with her friends. Life’s full of tough choices when you’re twenty, after all.

That never happened to me of course. I am ALWAYS present. I never daydream. And I ALWAYS went to class in college. {empathy, remember?}

If there’s one thing I’ve taken note of in my short five year stint in this exclusive club everyone seems to be DYING to get into, (but no one can EVER get out…HELLO, is ANYONE thinking this THROUGH???!!!} it’s that people are passionate about their children, and their subsequent life/parenting choices. So the whole naming your private parts conundrum, kind of falls into that category.

Aiden: circa 2008

We were sitting on the deck of my parent’s house, with my entire family, at dusk. It was quite picturesque with the fall breeze, despite the usual heavy air. We were watching for fireflies. There was a lull in the conversation. Just in time of course, for Emerson, who was sitting on my mother’s lap, to ever-so-daintily, pull open the top of her shirt. Emmy looked down, and giggled: “I see BOOBIES!” It was exclaimed, triumphantly, as if she had discovered the final easter egg for her basket.

Yes, those of you who thought you knew me, may be picking your jaw up off the floor at this very moment. And all you purists out there, please try to refrain from flogging me, and deleting the blawgh forever. I honestly find that reference quite charming and innocent compared to the correct word. The word BREASTS {I can’t believe I just wrote any of these words. Pervy people will now be googling my blog-and I am totally digressing into a giggling fifth grader, cowering in the corner} just sounds dirty uttered from the mouth of babes. Cringe much?

I defended myself quite heartily with the fam, who erupted into a riot of laughter at her latest vocab discovery. She had been poking my own lady parts and asking repeatedly for days, giggling when she opened my shirt. So I finally caved under pressure. I guess I should have been prepared. I thought perhaps I would have more time. Like maybe when she was seventeen she would ask me, and THEN I would use the real words. My kids are going to be the ones who, if it were left solely up to me to explain anything, will totally come to the natural conclusion that they must be dying, rather than simply growing up. I’m kind of lousy like that. Good thing I’m married to someone who kind of specializes in teens…

As a result, Emerson put on a show for everyone at the most inopportune moment, as if to highlight my fabulous parenting skills. Look! Mommy taught me a sketchy word in a moment of sheer weakness! And she didn’t think I would repeat, or remember it! Silly mommy. I will now regurgitate and display it with great pride! BOOOOOOOBBBBIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSS! Boobies! Boobies! Boobies!!! I half expected her to delve right in to the next natural segue way: “Mommy needs enhancements and is now planning on squandering my college education fund for a new pair of gals! Hurray for fake Boobies!”

But she didn’t.

And I guess I won’t.

Can I see a raise of hands of the parents who DO use the correct words with their children? Because I (obviously) totally can’t say them. I can’t even reference the mature, medical terms for such things on my own blog. Much less with my CHILDREN. I want to giggle when I hear it in real life, and when Aiden asks me what his area is called, I want to run and curl up in the fetal position in the corner. Am I the only one who does this? Props to you if you’re all anatomically correct with your “areas.”

I absolutely can. NOT.

I’ve also heard of the other extreme direction some parents take. They are ultimately THOSE people, who teach their children the crass names for their parts. You know, the words that boys stumbling over themselves at a street party in college would use, when they grab your bootay. You turn around from where you were, innocently listening to a band, and there he is, all sweaty and drunkenly fat, with his beer foaming over the red stereotypical cup in his hand, completely satisfied with himself. You know he uses those words, because he slurs them in some caveman-esque form of a sentence right before you slap him. He actually thought you were going to let him grab you by the hair and drag him back to his frat cave. Because he’s a manly man with his manly peeps, all up in your territory even though you were apparently aloof to the idea that your rear was asking for a party with the sweaty fat boy sausage digits in the form of an invasion. Even nasty college boys have children. And he, in turn, will teach his son to use those words. I’ve met those people. So have you.

Delightfully charming, it is not. Sorry, sweaty ex college dude with fat sausage hands and crass words for your privates. Your kids have totally been nixed from the playdate list. You still disgust me.

SO, what am I to teach my children? So far, We’ve played it cool and referred to it all as bottoms. We’re going the simple route until they ask for more. Hindsight is always 20/20, but I am totally calling them “lady parts” in her presence from now on. Duh. That is SO much more sophisticated, and much less, uh, strip clubbish…

Are we going to give them a complex? {No.}

Will I give myself a complex? Drive myself crazy searching for what I feel is the perfect answer, and ultimately ruin their childhood by blogging about it? {Yes. Yes I will.}

In the meantime, I plan to stay away from the blatantly honest subject matter on the facts of life, until they’re allowed to date, at thirty. I’m seriously considering homeschooling, in the attic. And online college courses with restricted computer usage until they’re at least twenty five. They’ll turn out completely UN socially special if I never let them leave our home, right?

Let’s just face it: I won’t be able to keep a straight face if I show them photos of reference for medical terminiology, like any biology teacher. And the accompanying hives are inevitable.

Thanks for taking one for the team, Jamin. {fist bump}

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