When Did I Get Like This?, page 12
ME: Fine. Just wash face, hands, feet, and…
I pointed to the below-the-belt areas, fore and aft.
I’m not sure why I did this. I could have simply said “penis” and “hiney,” as we say every day in our house. (Granted, “hiney” is not anatomically correct, but I think saying “Let Mommy wipe your buttocks” is just too silly.) I think that when I gestured to Connor’s penis and hiney, rather than naming them, I was reflecting Connor’s recent and sudden privacy concerning his private parts. He now wanted to wash those parts of himself by himself, rather than have me do it for him, as I had every night until a week or so before. Connor had a new understanding that his penis and, say, his elbow were not to be treated with equal casualness. So I did my little mime, then said,
ME: Wash all of that, and you can get out, buddy.
and walked down the hall to pull out his pajamas. After ninety seconds or so, Connor yelled,
CONNOR: Mom! I’m done!
ME: Okay, honey!
And as I walked back down the hall to the bathroom:
CONNOR: I washed my wiener hole!
This was one of those moments when you are just so, so sorry to be the only adult present. I popped my head around the bathroom door.
ME: Your what?
CONNOR: I washed my wiener, and my wiener hole.
I bit the inside of my cheek, hard. Laughing would shatter the magic of the moment. This called for some Mommy Mock Horror, a move perfected by my own mother.
ME: Connor! Where did you hear words like that?
CONNOR: At school.
ME: Those are not words we use in this house.
CONNOR: (confused) But, Mommy. It’s politer to say “wiener” than “penis.”
ME: What? No, it’s not.
CONNOR: (quite sure) Yes, it is.
Now I was the one who was confused. Is it politer to say “wiener” than “penis”? Under certain circumstances, I supposed perhaps it was. And what about “wee wee”? Was that the terminology best used when at, say, a high tea? I was no longer sure about any of it, and I therefore proceeded with caution.
ME: Well. If you’re trying to be really polite, it’s better not to say either one of those words. But if you’re in science class, and you’re talking about your body, it’s okay to say “penis.” And if you’re having hot dogs for lunch, it’s okay to say “wiener.”
CONNOR: Why?
ME: Well—because—a hot dog is a wiener. That’s what a wiener is.
Connor’s jaw dropped.
CONNOR: WIENER MEANS HOT DOG?
And then he laughed for the next fifteen minutes. Eventually I had to just leave him in there while he yelled down the hall, “Mommy! I washed my hot dog!” and other such repartee, another sign my little boy was becoming the grown-up sort of little boy.
Soon after that, Connor announced that he was forgoing baths entirely and would henceforth take only showers. “Please, Mom, do not come in!” he would shriek if I cracked the bathroom door to check on him. “I’m make-id in here!” A week after that, as part of a teary afternoon where he told me he “just felt sad for no reason,” Connor emerged from his bedroom, crayon in hand.
CONNOR: How do you spell “away”?
ME: A-W-
CONNOR: Don’t tell me how to spell “go,” though, I know that.
ME: Why do you want to write “Go away”?
Connor held up two pieces of construction paper, one red and one green.
CONNOR: I’m making two signs for my door. The red one will say “Go Away,” and if you see it, you can’t come in my room. The green one will say “Go Ahead,” and that means you can come in if you want to, if you knock first and say, “Can I come in?” and I say, “Go ahead.”
I explained to Connor that while we would all respect his privacy, he shared a room with his younger brother, and so there would be times when Seamus would have to come in even if the red sign were posted. Seamus looked up from where he was playing on the floor nearby with his Walkin’ Talkin’ Lightning McQueen.
SEAMUS: That’s okay, Mommy. I don’t fink I have to go in.
ME: You don’t have to go in your own room?
SEAMUS: Nope.
ME: Ever?
Seamus just shrugged.
There I was, with two sons: a six-year-old who suddenly craved extreme privacy, and another, a year and a half younger, who couldn’t imagine why he’d ever want a moment to himself. Seamus is a “before” picture of blissful ignorance, and he takes care of his personal business no matter who is watching. For Seamus, there is nothing finer than watching Wacky Races on the couch in his jammies with elasticized waistband, all the better to get both hands down his pants at the same time. He has no hang-ups about this whatsoever. I try not to either, but one night I couldn’t help myself and said,
ME: Shea, it’s not really nice to do that.
SEAMUS: Do what?
ME: Uh. Touch your penis like that in the middle of the living room.
Seamus looked at me like I was an idiot.
SEAMUS: Mommy. I’m zust playin’ Cut the Cucumber.
He then gave me a most un-self-conscious demonstration of said game and its rather free-form rules.
Seamus loves his body. To my mind, he is a bit too comfortable with it, but in consideration of the healthy adult male I wish to create, I try to be largely nonjudgmental about how often he plays Cut the Cucumber, as long as he is doing it more or less in private. One recent morning, though, he started being brazen with himself while we all stood on the street corner waiting for the bus. “Seamus,” I said, “honey, you can do that at home in your bed if you’d like, but you can’t do that in public,” trying to, as the books would tell me, redirect without shame.
“What’s a pubwic?” Seamus asked.
“Yeah, Mom,” Connor asked, piping in as if he had been waiting for the right moment to bring this up, “what’s a public?” There we stood at the bus stop while I explained the notions of public, private, and masturbation itself, a talk I had been expecting to have, oh, some time after pre-K. I explained that while touching yourself was a wonderful and totally normal means of self-expression, it was something best done in the privacy of your room. How modern was I! No judgment, none of my own sexual issues being visited upon my offspring. But Seamus was staring at me blankly, hands still down his pants, and I felt like I was giving Connor, who had never considered such behavior, an intriguing new reason to put the red “Go Away” sign up on his door.
With years left to go before my children enter puberty, I am already navigating tricky waters. I am never sure where on the prude/hippie spectrum I am supposed to be, either for their good or for mine. For example, my kids still see me naked. This is not well thought out on my part; it happens less by design than necessity. If both boys are on my bed by 6:30 A.M., watching cartoons while I shower, and if Maggie decides to spend those few moments of my stolen freedom with her hands splayed against the steamy glass door, her mouth O’d wide like a ghost desperate to escape from the spirit world, she gets a good look at me in the altogether. And then when I get out, and Connor and Seamus start a face-scratching competition before my underwear is on, they too may see my saggy bare ass when I intervene.
David has suggested that our children, especially Connor, should probably stop seeing me naked at some point in the near future. And I fully intend to bring it to a close, just as soon as I can trust my kids to not kill each other for a full four minutes. When’s that, twelfth grade? Until then, well, they’ve all had my boob in their mouth a thousand times, whether or not they are currently consciously aware of that, and it no longer seems like I have much to be modest about. This goes for everyone. I live in the middle of New York City, and sometimes I don’t even bother to close my curtains before I get dressed. Honestly, if you want to take a look, go for it. I’m no longer excited enough about my body to feel proprietary.
Sometimes I think it’s good for my children to see what a mother of three’s body looks like in real life, so that their standards will remain realistic. But have I already exceeded the appropriate deadline for nude mommies? It’s kind of like how you have to breastfeed your baby until he’s a year, or else you’re a bad mother; but if you breastfeed a single day past the one-year mark, that’s gross and there’s something wrong with you. The window is extremely narrow, and am I a bad mother for having perhaps missed it entirely? Maybe I am excessively Bohemian in this regard. I think it’s because, breastfeeding all three of them, I got used to being at least half naked at least half of the time. In contrast, I was bottle-fed, and I don’t think I saw my own mother naked, ever. All my life, she has been the patron saint of modesty. Have I grown up to be a less warped adult for it?
And how old do Seamus and Maggie have to be before they stop bathing together? Despite its efficiency, I fear that too is drawing to a close. Just last week, Seamus decided to fully recline in the bathtub. His little penis bobbed to the surface of the water. With much curiosity, Maggie put aside her rubber duckie to have a closer look-see at this new bath toy. Seamus saw her coming but made no attempt to correct the situation. On the contrary, he crossed his arms behind his head, like a caricature of a satisfied, stogie-smoking politician. Let’s just say I quickly intervened.
ME: Seamus, your penis is just for you.
SEAMUS: Why?
Well, that was a good question. Was a four-year-old ready to hear me say, “Well. It’s just for you, or, once you reach sexual maturity, other romantic partners, of indeterminate gender, with whom you are in a consensual relationship”? I decided against it.
ME: Because it’s your private place.
SEAMUS: Why?
ME: Christ on a stick, Seamus, get out of the bathtub!
I really should plan ahead for such moments. I need to have three different age-appropriate birds-and-bees speeches, one for each child, memorized and ready to go at all times. I am procrastinating in doing this, because I would really rather not have these talks at all. My mother never told me the facts of life. Of course, she didn’t really need to, since Judy Blume’s Forever was being passed under the desks by fifth grade. But I’m pretty sure I was not full of questions to make my mother uncomfortable when I was in kindergarten, and even if I was, I’m sure she deflected them with great skill.
I do not have my mother’s subject-changing power, and by attempting to give my children information that is user-friendly and reassuring, I am forever painting myself into corners. I have told my boys in the past that babies come from a mommy and daddy giving each other a special hug and praying to God to put a baby in the mommy’s tummy. This worked well, until Connor recently asked me:
CONNOR: Mommy, why is it rare for a horse to be all white?
ME: Well. They have to be bred that way. You need a white mommy horse and a white daddy horse to make a white baby horse.
CONNOR: But…how do they?
I didn’t see where he was headed.
ME: How do they what?
CONNOR: Horses can’t pray.
ME:…No…
CONNOR: So who prays for the white baby horse to be in the mother horse’s tummy? Is it the farmer?
My “special hug and a prayer” story is taking on water faster than I can bail. Since the white horse quiz, Connor has also asked me if, when his classmate Lucy’s two daddies did their special hug, they had to pray for Lucy to be in another mommy’s tummy, and if so, how did God know which lady to pick? I said (1) yes, and (2) the daddies made sure to tell God which lady in their prayer. (One would want to be pretty specific with that request.) I hope I bought myself some time. I am somewhat relieved that I may have to explain to Connor the logistics of surrogate mothers and in vitro fertilization long before I actually explain what men like to do with their wieners.
Even so, I try to put it all off. When Connor’s questions get too tricky for me, I tell him that I will get him a book to answer all of his questions. Then, I do not. Assuming there is an age-appropriate book I can read to Connor with a straight face, I really should get it. Alternatively, I could tell him to go ask his father. But Connor’s asking me, and I know I won’t always have that privilege. If my son is looking to me for answers, the burden rests on my shoulders. If I am to be the honest and trustworthy mother that I want to be to my children, there are a lot of discussions of uncomfortable topics ahead. With each of my children, I will have to find the right language to discuss them. I cannot say I am looking forward to those conversations, especially (heaven help me) with my daughter. But those days are coming, and they will not be delayed just because I think it’s too soon.
In the meantime, Connor has intuited that his body is changing, and it is ironic that his need for privacy has come at the same moment he has grown so amazing to behold. He looks a little taller to me every morning. He is sinewy and lithe and almost-seven, and on his sturdy chest are written all the wonderful things he might become. He is all possibility, a bud, and when I watch him take a running jump into the swimming pool, I wonder how that strapping youngster ever fit inside me. No wonder I’m so stretched out.
Last night, after his shower, Connor stuck his head in the kitchen.
CONNOR: I washed everything, Mom.
ME: Sounds good.
CONNOR: I washed the Big P and the Big B.
I nodded, biting the inside of my cheek again.
ME: Is that what we’re going to call them now?
CONNOR: I think so. I think it’s politer.
ME: Okay, then. Why “Big P,” though? Why not just “The P”?
CONNOR: Well, I thought about that. But then I thought it would be confusing. A lot of things could be “The P.” But only one thing can be “The Big P.”
I think he just gave me the introduction for my speech.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Beginning to Develop
One of my clearest memories of my own childhood is report card day, which occurred four times a year. Each student at St. Clare School would be sent home with a checkbook-green account of his or her progress. I remember my parents nodding their approval and then table-tenting my report card on the kitchen counter, where it would stay for at least a week, greeting anyone who might drop by through the back door and giving me no small amount of personal fulfillment. Before I was old enough to be graded on actual subjects, the assessment scale at St. Clare School had a very simple rating system: in each category, a student’s work would be either Satisfactory or Unsatisfactory. Four times a year, I would take my report card down from the kitchen counter and gaze with great pride at my uniform rows of S’s, a fleet of billowing sailing ships in Sister Angelique’s best cursive.
Penmanship
Courteous Behavior
Uses Time Wisely
I would have accepted nothing less from myself, although if I were honest I would have admitted that getting all S’s was not really that hard. I just did what was expected of me.
These days a mere report card is an insufficient review of any child’s progress, and so David and I are obliged to visit the boys’ school twice a year for a private conference with their teachers. It is there that our children’s development (in kindergarten and pre-K, respectively) is reviewed in great detail: their playdeck behavior, their participation in music and Spanish and Show-and-Tell. We had already had about four of these meetings regarding Connor. Each one was mostly spent making small talk with his teachers. He was a birth order dream: the oldest child of two oldest children. Of course his report card had all laser-printed M’s (as in “Most of the Time”). Really, there was nothing to discuss.
Now it was time for Seamus’s pre-K evaluation, with the same teacher Connor had had the year before. David and I sat in two tiny chairs, our knees bumping up against the Choice Time table. Ms. Porter smiled, a little tightly it seemed, and placed Seamus’s evaluation in front of us. I could see immediately that something was wrong. The letters were not in a uniform row. There were a few M’s, but many more S’s and B’s:
Follows classroom rules B
Responds appropriately to verbal requests B
Uses words to express needs S
Understands boundaries between self and others B
I had to check the key to see that the “S” here meant not “Satisfactory” but “Sometimes” in other words, only sometimes. The “B” in this equation was for “Beginning to Develop,” an optimistic euphemism, though I immediately understood its true connotation: Bad. Moving Backward.
“Seamus is having some trouble listening,” Ms. Porter began gently. (A year earlier, she had told us what an unending pleasure Connor was to have in class.) “If we tell Seamus he has to listen, he will cry, and claim something is hurting him, but he still will not cooperate.”
He cried when it was time for music class and refused to line up on his assigned number.
At recess, he had pushed a mild bespectacled boy off his tricycle and scratched a little girl, without apparent provocation.
In art class, he refused to participate at all, his Do-A-Dot landscape stubbornly blank despite his art teacher’s encouragement. In the end, she had sixteen other kids she had to worry about, so for the last few weeks she had been letting him just sit there.
I was embarrassed by the tears in my eyes.
“I’m so sorry to spring this all on you,” Ms. Porter said. “I would have said something sooner, but it’s really all just come to a head. It must be something of a shock.” But it wasn’t. It was just that I had chosen to believe, while Seamus had become such a belligerent, weepy pain in the ass at home, that at least he was doing well at school. I told myself that he was coming home and detonating from the pressure of having behaved at school all day long. Children are always worst for their mother, aren’t they?
