Anyone else remember playing “the penis game” in high school or college? You would take turns saying the word “penis”, each time saying it louder than the person before you. It was best if done in a public place. If you laughed or refused to say it louder or at all, you lost. It was cheap entertainment in those days. Now, it is the story of my life. With three boys, specifically Number Two and Number Three, I find myself inundated with penis talk. Number Two, especially, will take any opportunity to mention the word penis, whether discussing his, specifically, or just making general small talk. It is one of his favorite subjects. Thankfully, he has stopped showing it to everyone that came over for a visit within the last year. There is nothing like having to issue a disclaimer to potential guests that your child might leave the room wearing pants and return, minutes later, full Monty. If you were around my son for more than two minutes, he wouldn’t hesitate to inform you that he had a penis and inform you where it was located. You may be asked if you have a penis. If you answered, “No”, he would express true sympathy for you. Evidently, we are really missing out.
Last year, I got a note from his teacher that read: Please make sure Number Two wears underwear to school. That is when I found out that he was going “commando” to school. I would give him underwear to put on in the mornings and, as it turned out, he had been choosing to forgo that item for quite some time before I got the heads up. I had never imagined myself having to perform daily “underwear checks”, much less having to debate with my five year old on the issue. The most embarrasing moment with him took place when he was about 3 years old and we were sitting in a waiting room. I saw his pants had come unsnapped and called him over to me and when I grabbed the snap on his pants, he yelled “YOU’RE TOUCHING MY PENIS!!”. I could have died. Right there. No lie. I was frozen, everyone was looking at me, trying to stifle their laughter and my son just went right on back to playing with his toy.
Now, with Number Three beginning to enjoy conversing about and showing off his penis, I see my life turning into one long round of the penis game. It has become a daily event for me to walk into his room in the mornings and/or after his nap and find that he has removed his diaper and is standing in his crib, with his junk pushed through the bars of his crib, lining up a shot at the toys on the floor. I can’t pay this kid to piss on the toilet but put him in bed and leave a few targets on the floor and leave the room and he is suddenly a fucking marksman.
By the time Number Four gets to this point, I envision myself in a catatonic state, walking the streets in my pajamas and yelling, “PENIS”.