Boys!
They are obsessive nut-grabbers. Corbin has discovered his wiener. He is fascinated with his newfound friend and he is becoming a little too familiar with it; they are officially inseparable, and he knows it. His weenie, to him, is what peanut butter is to jelly, salami is to provolone, and bread is to butter. He takes great pride in his willie: holding it, yanking on it, rubbing on it like a wishing stone, and it is the first thing he seizes during a diaper change. What’s next? Will he be giving it a cute little name and primping it before a play date?It's very unnerving!
Especially since I am the primary caregiver, the one responsible for readjusting it for him so that he doesn’t continue to shoot pee UP AND OUT of his diaper like a freakin’ fire hose.
He will be fixated on Dora one minute, and the next, he’s mindlessly busting the thing out of his diaper and fiddling with it while talking to Boots in Spanish about Swiper.
Or, he’ll be immersed in Yo, Gabba Gabba at 11:30, and I think, “now’s a safe time to begin preparing lunch,” only to find him, less than ten minutes later, completely stripped down, dancing to Shakey, Shake! Shake! Shake! Shake! red wiener in hand, and a smile on his face.
I’ve said it before - I’ll say it again - that cartoon is laced with subliminal messages. He never did that sort of thing before watching Yo, Gabba Gabba. And, go figure, Muno is his favorite character.
It’s creepy!
Next thing I know he will heathenishly announce to his preschool class in the middle of religion that he has a boner, causing some poor old nun to have a coronary.
I’ve been through the boy phase before, albeit long ago. John is 18 now and stopped playing with himself in front of me many years ago, preferring instead to do his business in private (I assume).
But, when he was around three years old, he decided to whip out his wiener in the middle of Elder Beerman. As I was standing in line, waiting patiently for an Estee Lauder clerk to help me, I was suddenly tapped on the shoulder by an older blonde woman – red faced and hyperventilating - who, choked up for words, could only manage to point in the direction of my son, who was standing in the middle of the cosmetics department, shorts down to his knees, yanking on his winker so hard it had turned purple.
I realize the novelty of being a compulsive nut-grabber doesn’t cease as boys grow from toddlerhood to young men and into and through adulthood – if anything – it gets worse as they get older. I still have to remind Jim to stop tugging on his watchamacallit every now and then.
What I do know is I won’t be doing Corbin’s laundry after he reaches an age in which more than pee is escaping the fire hose.
Been there.
Done that.
And, that’s all I have to say about that!
Posted originally at http://maneuveringmotherhood.com by Miss Behavin
