It’s Not All Mary Poppins

I’m blaming the pool

“Noah. WHAT have you dropped down there?”

It’s not something I haven’t seen before. I recall Arthur, who made a steady hobby of sneaking small toys home — in his pocket, in the hood of his coat, in a mitten, and yes, down the front of his Y-fronts.

Noah glances down. If he’s trying to be subtle, he’s failed miserably. We’ve spent the morning in the pool again, he’s wearing nothing but a pair of damp tightie-whities, and that bulge is way too big to be…

“It’s my penis.”

It’s his grin, a sheepish combination of embarrassment and utter pride, that convinces me. There really is nothing down there but the boy.

Well, now. The water in the pool is cold, and his damp briefs have to be cool. In my experience — not vast, but not… meager, either — cold has the opposite effect on those things. His hand reaches down, and —

“Hey, sweetie. Snacktime!” Snack time is not for another half an hour, but what I want at the moment is a Distraction.

It works. Though his grin doesn’t quite disappear, his hand falls back to his side. When we’ve finished eating, the … toy is gone. Phew. Okay, not gone gone, but subsided.

Later that evening, Emma returns from babysitting Tyler and Emily. One of the perks of having a mother who runs a daycare is after-hours babysitting work for my kids. Each of them has had their turn. These days, it’s Emma. Who is, unsurprisingly, a kick-ass babysitter.

“How did it go?”

“Fine. They played for an hour, then we read for a bit. Their mum had supper ready, so all I had to do was heat it up, and after they had a bath before — Oh! Mum!” Her eyes widen and she grins. “So, they have their bath together, right? And Tyler has obviously been taught to clean his genitals. He stands up, gets his hands all soapy and starts rubbing. Then he tells me, ‘I have to clean my penis.’ And I say, ‘Yup, you need to clean all of you, don’t you?’ And then he rinses it off… and then he cleans it again, because, hey! He’s SUPPOSED to, right?? It’s not because it, you know, feels good or anything like that. And then he soaps up again, and he’s all set to wash it ANOTHER time, and I say, ‘Okay, buddy. I think it’s clean now. You can stop.’ ”

She giggles. “He’s probably got the cleanest penis of any two-year-old in the city right now.”

Yeah. It’s that damned pool. What else could it be?

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July 12, 2010 - Posted by | health and safety, Mischief, sex | ,

3 Comments »

  1. Ah, just like the fertility symbols of yore…

    Exactly.

    Comment by IfByYes | July 13, 2010 | Reply

  2. My son… cannot stop talking or touching or describing it. Argh. He’s 4.5. Does it ever stop?

    My son, who is 21, has not played with his (in public), nor spoken about it (at least with me) for, oh… at least a couple of years.

    KIDDING!!!

    Four and a half is pushing the envelope a bit, in fact. I’m pretty sure that it won’t be much longer before his school friends start applying a little gentle peer pressure (“J’s BEING GROSS AGAIN!!!!”)… which will probably solve that problem for you!

    Comment by Dani | July 13, 2010 | Reply

  3. Maybe I should get the pool for my husband…

    Oh, dear. Sounds like a story there. It might be worth a shot. At the very least, you’d be cool, right?

    Comment by Bethany | July 13, 2010 | Reply


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