SCENE: The ladies lounge of a country club on the outskirts of Chicago. Several imperious-but-friendly elderly golfers were relaxing in the lounge talking about mulligans and sand wedges (not the summer shoe, but the golf club). There was also an attendant who appeared to be keeping the lounge in pristine condition.
HOW DID WE END UP THERE: Some generous and kind friends invited us to be their guests at the pool and join them for lunch. Sadie, somewhat overstimulated by the posh surroundings of the lovely club, had a hard time focusing when we went to the bathroom at 12:20. She was unable to pee in the presence of visor-headed ladies and all those club trophies. So, we tried again
the moment mommy’s lunch arrived at 12:40. For good measure, during our 12:40 trip, we tried a different stall to see if we could get better success.
Me: Sadie, can I help you?
The sound of golden droplets sprinkling the toilet.
Me: Good job! Let’s wipe.
Sadie discovers that shiny silver bin where non-flushable items go. You know that bin, right? The one that is directly at her eye level when she perches on the throne? That one.
Me: Sadie, please don’t touch that. It’s dirty.
She touches it again.
Me: Sadie, that’s seriously dirty. Let’s not touch that.
Guess what? She now wants to fondle it passionately because she enjoys that it’s driving me crazy.
Me: Sadie, let’s get out of here. PLEASE stop touching that. It’s super, super dirty.
Sadie: LIKE A VAGINA!
* * *
I am pretty sure that my Master’s degree (the one wherein my concentration was women’s studies) was revoked instantly. Several key chambers of my heart collapsed, along with my lungs and my soul and my spirit animal (the swan).
Ya’ll, I have worked diligently from DAY NUMERO UNO to teach Sadie and Simon that their bodies are sacred. I won’t let them turn their noses up at their own sh*t, for god’s sakes (which, just between us, smells like SH*T). Whenever Sadie takes a whiff of Simon’s pungent poops and makes her “EEEWWWWWW” face, I tell her (in what must be a very annoying voice), “Sadie, it’s actually wonderful that Simon’s body works so well. We are so lucky that he’s healthy and his body works.” I am THAT mom. I am not hard core about much, but I am hard core about body love and body acceptance and body RAH! RAH! RAH!
From the beginning, I have used the correct body part names for all body parts, including genitals because I read it was key to raising children who love their bodies. There is no “wee wee” or “hoo ha” or “va jay jay” around here. Children who freely name their body parts are also less likely to be targeted for sexual abuse. Sadie knows that when Simon takes a poop I have to clean his penis and his testicles. We call a spade a spade around here.
Because I am educated.
Because I care.
Because I have had enough therapy that my therapist should name his boat after me.
Because I want my kids to love their bodies.
Because I don’t want either of them to think their genitals are dirty, disgusting, or shameful.
So, how in name of the Good Lord did Sadie come up with the idea that a vagina is dirty, like a trash receptacle?
I am telling you, I am so disheartened I have go to bed. I would probably go to bed anyway because it’s almost 8:45 PM, but I am upset. And if I were any less dehydrated, I might be crying real tears.
Internet, I need a pep talk.