If you don’t have kids this post might weird you out a little bit because, well, you might not be familiar with the peculiar intimacy of parenthood. But, you don’t need kids to laugh at us idiots who have them and are perpetually creeped out by how weird are our own offspring.
I used to think those pics of naked babies on their moms were super cute and sweet and delicious and that’s basically how I imagined motherhood to be at least sometimes. Now when I see them, I think, “how many times did that kid give mom a titty twister” and also “did they pee on her?”
The parent/kid relationship is bizarrely intimate in the way that you straight up spend so much time like staring at their butt to clean them, or checking their gums for teeth, or checking for rashes, etc. You spend a ton of time covered in their puke or pee during the infant stage and then, I’m learning, toddlers spend a lot of time examining you in every which way imaginable because they’re learning about bodies. It’s innocent and sweet but painful and awkward. Little chubby fingers up my nose, in my mouth, in my throat and ears, and for sure my vision will be damaged by the number of times I’ve been poked in the eye as my son screams “EYE.” Any day now I’ll get a patch and a parrot and take to the high seas. But my son’s newest thing takes the cake for “how do I react to these moments?” moments. He runs at me when I’m naked, pointing, arm all the way extended in front of him screaming, “THIS?!” while he tries to jab me in the crotch because it’s apparently a new thing and very interesting. Also, titty twisters when we take a bath together. Sigh. The last thing I want to do is make a big deal about bodies. Because they’re just bodies and he’s a baby and there’s nothing wrong with curiosity and it’s totally healthy. But also he can’t jab me or other people in the crotch.
I’m thinking of getting a jockstrap but for now I just say, “that is mommies vagina honey. You have a penis and I have a vagina.” While I try to hop into my underwear as fast as possible.
How’s your week?
M. E. Evans 