You Don’t Have a Penis!

J-man is absolutely obsessed with his penis. That’s right, ladies, and it started basically as soon
as he could figure it out.

I spent the entire summer cleaning sheets because J-man would pull his penis out of his shorts
and fiddle with it while he was falling asleep. I would diligently go into his room before I went to
bed and tuck it back in — hoping I could manage before he’d wet the bed. But inevitably he’d
find it in the middle of the night. “Mommy, I’m all wet.” One night it happened three times —
seriously! “What happened?” I'd ask. The answer, either, “I pulled out my penis,” or “I played
with my penis and I pee.”

He loves to say the word. We never react, and speak very openly about his penis in the hopes
that he’d get bored and stop talking about it. But that hasn’t worked at all.

Potty training has been particularly fun. “J-man, you have to tuck your penis into the potty.
You can’t pee when you are playing with your penis.” I’m convinced the fun of the potty is free
access to the penis!

I was thrilled when fall came. By this time J-man knew he could play and then tuck and then
pee…and then play some more. Yes, we do a lot of hand-washing. But more importantly, I was
happy for the cool weather and the onesie pj’s. “I can’t get my penis,” he says every time I pull
a pair out. Then he laughs hysterically and shows me how he can’t find it. He’s so long his toes
are about to poke out, and no one — I mean no one — makes them in size 4. I may have to just
cut off the feet.

I still have to remind him to keep his hand out of his pants and to point his penis down when
we are out and about, but because we are potty training we are working on going to the potty
enough that there are fewer accidents.

We are also working on who else has a penis. He goes through the list often. “I have a penis,
Mommy doesn’t have a penis, Daddy has a penis, Nana doesn’t have a penis, Grandpa
has a penis.” You get the idea. We go through all of his friends; his daycare teachers; his
cousins, aunts, uncles, and brothers. Sometimes multiple times a day. He’s developed a
joke: “Uncle ‘John’ doesn’t have a penis; he’s a little girrrl!” He can laugh at this joke for a
remarkably long time.

I have explained that girls have vaginas, but that appears to be of no interest to him — they
merely lack a penis. An interesting development for a mom with a women’s studies degree:
how do I change this thinking? I have not yet explained to him that actually I do have a cousin
who is a boy but is trans-gendered and therefore actually does not have a penis. Probably too
confusing at this age, and it might raise more questions than it is worth. We’ll hope it doesn’t
come up at Christmas dinner.

Anyway, for someone who has never had a penis, and quite frankly never thought too much
about them, my life is entirely about penises. Welcome to Motherhood, at least if you have my
son!

-Sleepwalking Mama

Papa

As I am getting older, obviously so are my parents. My father’s health is declining rapidly
these days and it has made me think about how long Lo will have his Papa.

Since the first time Lo was in his Papa’s arms, there has been a connection. The two not
only look alike, Lo loves his Papa. He asks about his Papa when he is not around, he
hugs and kisses him when he is, and when he leaves him Lo calls out, “I love you Papa.”

This past week, my father was in the hospital. He had a major surgery, and as a result
there have been some consequences to the procedure, and he has become increasingly
confused. During his stay at the hospital, Lo wanted to pray for his Papa — on his own
suggestion. He prayed that “Papa’s tummy was better” and that he would “see Papa
soon.” It broke my heart. I struggled with how much information to tell Lo about what was
happening to my father, and also struggled with not telling him anything at all. So I kept it
simple and so did Lo.

An unbelievable thing happened when my father returned home. As we drove up to
my parents’ house, Lo was so excited to see his Papa. We got to the door and Lo ran
straight over to Papa and hugged him, planted a big kiss on him, and told him he loved
him. Everyone was close to tears.

It is inevitable; there will be a day when I will have to sit down to have a discussion
about death with Lo. I will have to struggle with the sadness, anger, and grief of not only
myself but my little Lo. I know a few people who have done some creative things when
explaining death to their children. I have heard of having a family pet — such as a fish,
since they aren’t likely to live long — and using it as a chance to unpack the impending
loss.

I have come to realize that kids are very aware and know that things are happening even
when we think they don’t know anything. Lo knew his Papa was not feeling well because
I was honest. We spoke about Papa, we prayed for Papa, and when we saw Papa we
hugged him. When death happens to our family, I hope I can be just as honest and open
with Lo. Because he will know the reality, because his Papa will not be there anymore.

-Gray Mama

[image: cate james illustration]

Daylight Savings

If you’ve read any of my previous posts, you’ll know that I am totally preoccupied with sleep.

Last night was a typical Sunday night. At 11 I gave up, put myself to bed, with J-man crying in
his room. I pleaded with him to let me sleep and threatened to sleep downstairs in the spare
room, abandoning him to be alone on the second floor. Eventually he quieted down. At 4:30 it
was time for a quick pit-stop, then straight back to bed for fear of waking the monster. (Post-
baby, the bladder, for some reason, refuses to let me sleep through the night.) Surprisingly, I
think I fell back to sleep relatively easily.

At 5:30 a.m., I heard the dreaded screech, “MOMMA!” I waited to see if he was just talking in
his sleep. Then came another, some crying, and then even through the pink foam earplugs, I
heard him get up. He’s still in a crib, like a prison cell, because his parents fear they may never
sleep again once he’s freed. I tip toe into his room for a quick hug, I calm him, tuck him back in,
and he drifts back off to sleep. I crawl back to bed, change the alarm from 6:20 to 6:40 a.m. I am
exhausted and know there is no way for me to get back to sleep with any real effectiveness for
less than an hour.

I wake at 6:20 a.m., anyway but as is the normal course on a Monday morning after a disrupted
sleep, I’m still tired. I’m still lying on my back, knees slung over a pillow, when the alarm clicks
on. I leap out of bed and quiet it quickly for fear I will wake the monster. I slip into the shower,
dress in the dark, and creep out of the house in the dark and without breakfast because the
other monster fell asleep on the couch (I suspect he does this sometimes on purpose to avoid
waking the monster upstairs).

Today when I open the front door, however, there is something that brightens my day. As tired
as I am, I can’t help but be lifted. There is daylight. I have not seen daylight when I’ve opened
my door since before September, when I started my new job. Maybe that’s not quite true, but it
certainly seems that way.

Thank you, daylight savings, for a little ray of sunshine to start my day. It really is the small
things in life, isn’t it?

-Sleepwalking Mama

Dear iPhone

Canadian Thanksgiving has passed, Christmas is coming. This is a time for reflection on the
things we’re thankful for. It’s a stretch, because I spend one-third of the year thankful for sun
and warmth, so the gray, dreary days of November leave me downright crusty. But at least I
have my iPhone.

Oh iPhone, you came into my life a mere two months after my precious daughter. The gap was
probably a good thing — any sooner and that whole attachment parenting thing might not have
happened. I attached to you like a newborn kitten desperate for that first suckle, clambering
over the baby to get to you when I needed my fix of Facebook and Sudoku. Your Daniel Craig
wallpaper reminded me that I was still a silly girl; your iBook app reminded me that I was still
literate. When I was trapped for hours under a feeding baby, you allowed me to avoid watching
The View and instead listen to NPR podcasts or stay in touch with friends who were out in the
world doing things and going places and drinking lots of wine. You caught my tears when I read
their wine-related status updates. You recommended a wine to go with my post-partum rice
cake binges.

During long sleepless nights spent bouncing and rocking and pacing, you kept me awake with
mah-jongg and Twilight books; you told me what I’d missed on The Soup; you provided the
lyrics to “Hallelujah” — all twenty-seven-or-whatever verses (FYI, not the most appropriate
lullaby, but I was running out of ideas, and most of the ones your Safari provided were pretty
lame). For these things I will be eternally grateful.

Now you hold thousands of pictures and videos of Cookie. And she knows this only too
well. “Video of Cookie!” she pleads, grabbing you in her grubby hands and punching uselessly
at the passcode keypad until she dials emergency services. I’ve added a few apps she might
like, but I’d rather have you all to myself. You send me countless tweets that distract me from
my work and lead me down the Internet rabbit hole to dangerous and exciting places. You play
all my favourite songs when I need a lift. You let me know when (if) the sun will shine again.

But now you’re not well. I can no longer clean your screen. Your button is not responsive to my
touch. Our time together isn’t over; according to our contract, I have to wait three more months
to update you. I won’t wait so long next time. Next time I’m getting a two-year contract. I want
you to stay young forever, since neither I nor Cookie can.

-East End Mama

Thankful

Ages ago, like a month ago, in honour of Canadian thanksgiving, East End Mama
challenged us to write about what we are currently thankful for. (I’m pretty sure she’s
going to write about her iPhone.) As odd as this it sounds, I thought of one person — my
financial planner. Let’s call him Brad.

I have been dreaming of a guy like Brad for a long time. Don’t get me wrong, I love my
husband and would not trade him for anything. No, this is a different dream, one where
my money is organized and I don’t live paycheque to paycheque. One where I have
savings (SAVINGS!) and where it all seems to happen effortlessly. Are there families
where this happens? (Please say no.)

Brad is my knight armed with a calculator and a portfolio!

I believe that finding someone like Brad was on my long list of “to dos” during my first
mat leave, but we all know how those dreams are quickly traded in for fitting back in to
your jeans and showering. So, this time, I really am taking charge and crossing things off
the to-do list. Watch out, life: you are about to get purged and organized!

So, in comes Brad to our living room one evening at 8 p.m. (seriously, so convenient).
He never shamed me or my husband (though he should have) for having neither life
insurance nor a will. (I know, the guilt is ridiculous.) He just nodded and said, “I can help
you do that,” and, “Let’s make that a priority.” Seriously, I love him. I was like someone
in one of those hokey banking commercials where the middle-aged couple is nodding
vigorously at the person across the desk, and their life goes from black and white to
vibrant colour when they realize that they CAN retire at 85. He made us feel like saving
was attainable and helped us prioritize what we needed to do. A house with a pool:
probably not soon. New furniture and a vacation not on credit: yes! Life insurance for
$50 a month: yes!

On our second meeting, he also came up with a few simple ways to make our savings
stretch a little further and also told me that we weren’t in bad shape at all (still not sure
what qualifies as bad shape, really, but I am happy to be in the mediocre pile for the time
being).

So, that is what I am thankful for. I guess I am thankful that I finally sent the email to get
this ball rolling, that it is working out pretty well, and also that people like Brad exist to
comfort people like me.

Okay, I have to go, I still don’t have a will…

-Tightrope Mama


[image: vintage coin bank]

Home Care

I finally took the leap and put my daughter in a “homecare” situation. Though it’s
unregulated (those were all full), my friend has a grand-kid in and recommended.

Today I walked in to pick up the Guppins and beheld my friend’s grandson, a three-year-
old, standing facing a wall with his hands in the air, crying.

My dreams of liberal childcare in a small town were shattered.

Let alone my state of being.

I adore this kid. First time I saw him I grabbed him and put him on my lap and kissed him
and hugged him. I have always, always been stand offish with “toddlers.” Maybe having
the Guppins warmed me up. But really I think it was him. B is my guy.

As Sir Dick pointed out (after I told him what I saw), B can be a bit of a little shit:

“I’ve seen him poke at the dog when no one’s looking, use his hands to whack at
things. Maybe this is the new age alternative to punishment: i.e., taking off the strap and
saying ‘All right, you—’”

“So they were taking it easy on him?”

Back at the homecare B is crying. He looks like he’s been crying for a while. He looks
like his arms are sore (I have no idea if this had been two minutes or ten); he keeps
asking to bring them down. But Childcare Lady’s husband is standing in close range, his
voice all-powerful:

“Keep ’em up or we start the clock all over.”

I say, “Hey B, how you doing?” then to the babysitter “What’s going on with B? A little
time out?”

I am balancing a number of emotions. I am trying to act normal, but with just enough
prescience to ask what the fuck is going on. And the husband, well he’s standing there in
the background making dern sure this little boy keeps those paws in the air.

Child-minder woman, a very sweet woman, a very calm woman, says,

“Oh well yes, he’s having a time out, he does things with his”… she stumbles
here… “well, he just has to put his hands up.”

This is a mess. This is unbelievable. Suddenly I’m back in grade one with Mrs. Shaw as
she terrorizes a small boy in the class, hauls him across her lap, pulls down his pants in
front of us, Bobby’s screaming and crying, his bare bum is showing …who she spanked
in front of us…

This is wrong.

I bundle up the Guppins. It’s a Friday so I say, “Okay, so Monday I’m not sure about, I
have a friend visiting with her daughter [true — East End Mama and Cookie]; I’ll call you”

From the wall:

“I need to sleeeeep!”

I say, “You get your nap in, okay? You get some sleep,” and I wish I could say I nail her
with a look but I don’t. I just…look. Pointedly.

And I’m out the door.

The Guppins is happy enough; she happily waves goodbye and says, “Ta ta.” They are
teaching her manners. I take it they are good at that.

I question her in the car:

“Do you like [Childminder Lady]? Do you like [her husband]?”

“Ya!”

“Do they make you stand in the corner with your hands in the air?”

This question comes up several times during the remainder of the day in the following
forms:

1. Guppins wakes up from her nap, stands on the bed next to the wall, and leans on it.
She’s crying, in a bad mood. I say, “Did she make you do that today?”

2. Later watching TV there’s some little animated character who, remarkably,
coincidentally, is dancing up against a kitchen wall with his hands in the air. I ask, “Is that
what B did today?”

I try to calm down. I try to get perspective. I google:

Is making a three-year-old stand facing the wall with his hands in the air child abuse?

Two things come up. One is the Dr. Sears’ treatise on time-outs; the
other is a porny site.

I recommend the Sears. But NOWHERE in it is there mentioned a time out facing the
wall WITH YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR.

I call my friend. First I bake (just to calm me down because the emotions are coming fast
and furious), but I call. I try not to be judgmental. She responds perfectly. She says “His
hands in the air?”

“Facing the wall. But he wasn’t on a seat [I reference Dr. Sears], he wasn’t alone, at
least; that’s a good thing.” (reminiscent of Blair Witch final moments)

“It’s good you called. We’ll talk later.”

The bread is baked (it’s a total flop), the baby wakes up, and my incredibly happy week
of having three hours a day, not including the afternoon nap, all to myself…

ARE OVER.

Sir Dick: “You shoulda known five bucks an hour for a babysitter was too good to be
true.”

Too true.

-Drama Mama