Number 101
December 16, 2011
The other Saturday, Owen was swinging the Question Hammer all afternoon and evening. Parents of young, often tired, kids know this one. It is the repeated paddling of your eardrums with Why. Without the polite interrogative at the end. Why. Answer me now.
Most of them, we managed to parry. But a few of them, I and my BS degree were unable to handle, so I am passing them up the advanced degree chain. To whit:
“Why do I have nipples?”
Ex post facto, I could dig up some links to more learned explanations as to why male humans have nipples; we’ll be receiving this one again. What remains is the growing awareness, as a parent, of some of those moments and facial expressions of my mom, when I had asked or demanded something, for which there was no time, energy, or knowledge to explain, and received that somewhat crumpled gaze on my mother’s face which reflected the continuing struggle to stay abreast of her kids.
Later that evening, Owen was in the tub and fiddling with his junk. I was too tired to lead or suggest another activity.
“What’s the round thing next to my penis?”
I tried to parry. “It’s part of your penis.”
“I know. But what’s it called?”
“It’s called a testicle.”
“What’s it for?”
In our family, we are not shy or shameful about nudity in the house. The kids can scamper about without clothes, and they can watch us dress. Questions come up, and that’s just fine.
The function, though, of our different body parts opens a whole new round of discussions. Many of them can be deflected with alternate functions. The why of the penis is to pee. The why of the vagina is to let babies out. The why of the testicle is one big Why, and there is no alternative. “To cause gut-sickening pain when smacked by a soccer ball?”
We had had four long years for which to prepare for the inevitable. In that time, I had tried to formulate and parameterize the future sex discussion. Would we discuss sex only, as a biological imperative? Would we venture forth into relationships and the emotional meaning of sex? Would we talk about Mommy and Daddy? Would we allow our kids to put the pieces together, eliciting a potentially horrifying realization? I had muddled together some half-hearted positioning on the matter and had banked on at least four more years to organize the speech.
Sex ed happens in third grade, right? Right.
The pause between my son and me dilated until it became clear that Owen would not tolerate a fatherly non-answer. It was eight o’clock at night, and I’d been up since three a.m. Opening this box would take at least another thirty minutes of pounding from the Question Hammer to get it closed again. I had no reasonable answer for a bright and cranky four year-old. I had no Jedi deflection, no clever rejoinder. I honestly served up this flop: “I don’t really know.”
Owen mulled that one for a moment.
“Do I have a testicle in my butt?”
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