As usual, this Thursday morning began like any other.
Reilly woke up grumpy, toting her blanket as an homage to Linus.
She struggled with getting dressed, argued about eating breakfast, balked at brushing her teeth.
You get the drift.
Mornings are tough for anybody, we all know that.
And then there is Jake.
If there could be an eighth dwarf called “Morning Midget”, it would be him.
He jumps out of bed every morning, as wide eyed and bushytailed as when he went to sleep.
So we’re about 15 minutes into our routine of one kid being typically ornery, and the other acting as if he has consumed three cappuccinos.
Again, a very mundane morning.
And then I hear the following:
I just want to cut my pee-pee off! UGH!”
(Deep breath, Mommy…remember whatever you say will somehow come back to become your fault when he endures a bout of erectile dysfunction at some point late in his life).
“Jake. You do not want to cut your pee-pee off.”
‘UGH! Yes I do! It’s bothering me.”
Perhaps I should mention that lately Jake has, shall we say, ‘noticed’ his pee-pee.
He doesn’t stroke it or play with it or derive pleasure from it, but he definitely is aware of its presence.
And, of course, this presence is more noticeable in the mornings.
I believe it is casually referred to as “Morning Wood”?
So I take another deep breath and tell Jake that if he leaves his pee-pee alone, it will go back to sleep.
He doesn’t like my answer, and continues with his “UGH”!
I rubbed his forehead and told him to go potty, and get dressed, and then we could have breakfast.
Off he trots to his room.
I begin to switch gears by assisting my angst-ridden five year old with her “my hair is a MESS” problem.
Jake returns to the kitchen, wearing nothing but a t-shirt.
As an interesting sidenote, the t-shirt said “All-Star”, and had embossed pictures of all kinds of sports balls: soccer balls, basketballs, footballs, baseballs, tennis balls.
Balls, balls, balls.
A most apropos attire for the day’s conversation, but quite coincidental, I assure you.
I asked Jake why he wasn’t wearing any wonderwears.
He walks over to me, and he is kind of hunched over.
He is holding his pee-pee with his left hand, very tightly, and his right hand is somewhere in his netheregions.
He has the most inquisitive look on his face that I have ever seen.
He is completely perplexed.
It is as if he has made a monumental discovery in the world of genetic research and has just realized that he will be winning the Nobel Prize for how to cure stupid.
And then Jake said, (with one hand on the shaft, and the other hand on the package), “What ARE these? LITTLE…..TINY……BALLS?”
To which I responded in the only way that I knew how that would hopefully not damage his fragile three year old sexual psyche: “Yes, Jake they are little tiny balls, and your father will be talking to you about them this evening.”
That seemed to appease him enough to shut up and go away and get dressed.
After dropping Jake off at preschool, I called my husband and told him it was necessary for him to have a little bit of show and tell with his son this evening.
He rebutted with, “I don’t know what to say! You’re the psychologist!”
I casually reminded him that not only was I not a psychologist, but I also did not have a Y chromosome nor a penis, no matter how badly I know that I should have, and this very well may have been the only mistake God has ever made.
Later that evening, the two guys in my life mowed the yard together. Afterward, they took a shower together. I don’t know what transpired behind that curtain, nor do I want to know. But I can tell you this. After they were finished showering, Billy was shaving his head in front of the bathroom mirror, wearing his boxers. I heard a little tiny voice on the floor of the bathroom.
The voice said, “This, Dad? THIS is the gonads?”
I nearly peed myself.
Billy responded without even looking away from the mirror, “Yes”.
“THIS, Dad? Or THESE? THIS or THESE is the gonads?”
“Hey Dad? Can I see yours again?”
To which my dear husband replied, “No.”
After I had gone outside and laughed until I cried, I came back and asked Billy, “Gonads? That’s the word you used? Gonads?”
He replied, “I was under a lot of pressure! It’s the only word I could think of!”
Which is probably why they don’t make t-shirts for little boys that have “Gonads” on them. Balls seems to suffice in my opinion.