Men Are from Mars My Son Has a Penis
By: Susan Howard
“Both balls have dropped,” the delivery examining doctor declared at the hospital. “So that’s good.” I breathe a sigh of relief. Apparently my son has balls and that, no doubt, is a good thing.
It’s not that I was surprised that he has a penis or balls for that matter, it’s just well, curious. The balls, as stated, have dropped, but I wonder was there a chance they wouldn’t? If you only had one ball did the other ball ever exist? Meaning, could a ball get lost? Rest assured my son’s balls have safely found their way to the landing pad. Houston we have contact.
Let me go back a bit and explain why I am fairly clueless about the male appendage. First off I am a lesbian mom and until six months ago, the only boy in our family was our dog Bailey. He got his balls chopped off soon after he arrived. (Insert post-feminist joke here.) For what is left of his doggie package he lifts his leg to pee on a tree, when he gets excited the little lipstick comes out, and he is constantly licking himself under the guise of cleanliness. To which I shout, “Get out of your area Bailey, it’s too much!”
Why am I going into such detail about my dog’s weiner? Because I honestly have not spent much time with dude dicks. Much to my short-lived boyfriends’ frustrations I am ill versed at all things penis. Having had a girlfriend as a senior in high school, I am sort of like the 40-year-old virgin in straight terms. Weird.
You can imagine my dismay when my wife told me indeed we were having a boy. The first big decision on my son’s joystick’s behalf -to circumcise or not -weighed heavy on my wife and me. We went back and forth considering all the different trends, humanity, non-hygienic cheese curd, and ultimately (perhaps because of my Jewish upbringing and my obsession with the Food Network), we chopped.
Recently I questioned this decision. My sister’s first fling was during her studies abroad with an Italian man. I am guessing Vinnie’s member was full throttle. Would she have hopped on the back of his Vespa if it hadn’t been? A straight friend assured me I had done the right thing. “You did him a favor, nobody wants to deal with that. You just bought your son years of blow jobs.” Phew.
My wife, having been a full-fledged straight girl before flipping to the other side, is my main go to for answers, but even she looked aghast when our son was born just under five pounds with his balls being one of those five. “They’re so big, are they supposed be that big?” she asked. “I think it’s good, my son’s got cojones.” I say as I slap him on the face.
Being a veteran diaper changer with my daughter I honestly feared this the most; changing a boy could be quiet harrowing. Do I dab around? What parts need cleaning? Where do things get trapped, creating bacterial cess pools? For the first month every time I changed him he got mad, crying and looking at me accusatorily. Now I have come to believe that unlike my daughter with all her crevices and folds, my son is easier to clean. Everything is just out there and if I dab carefully he doesn’t even cry. He does pee on me on purpose no doubt, but so did my daughter. In fact my children love to pee on me. It’s an intramural sport for ages 0 to 1.
I have heard stories of friends with boys. “Wait till they stay in the bathroom for an hour with the shower running.” Ugh. I definitely need my own bar of soap. I know it will happen, all of it, I just don’t want to see it, or know about it. “You’re such a prude,” my wife laughs.
“Good. You can show him how to use a condom,” I retort.