If he knows enough to kung-fu grip the testes and call them ‘nuts’ to my face, then he should know enough to take care of them on his own. I mean, they are his and he is in kindergarten now and he doesn’t even call me mommy anymore. So, he’s basically a man. And men don’t let their momma’s wash their balls. There you go…reasoning. Flawed, yet sensible. I kid, but I’m serious.
So, How To Wash Your Weenis 101 commenced. I won’t go into specifics, but just like any other little kid fascinated by his genitals, my boy got a kick out of me saying “testicles” and took pride in being able to wash his parts on his own. I was fine for the most part, but let me tell you, I took no pleasure in saying, “Make sure you get the shaft real good.”
However, in some weird way, that moment provided me with some motherly perspective. And this being a blog and all, I’ll share it with you. My Oprah ah-ha moment was this: My son is not my property, he is my responsibility. It’s easy to want to claim ownership of someone when you’ve given them half of their chromosomes, but parenthood is not about the possession of your creation. It is the science of learning to let go…everyday. It is living the mantra that when he can, he should and it is my job to make sure he does. As milestones pass in his life and he accomplishes feats that will certainly be his own, he should have the confidence in his own ability, intellegence and common sense to take care of himself without asking (or needing) the help or opinion of others…even mine (I mean, not now, but at some point :)). That is my responsibility…that is my charge.
As mothers, our hearts sometimes break as much as they spill with pride as our child(ren) become more independent. I had no such inclination to emote about this one. I only felt relief and a little bit of satifaction. I won’t have my boy grow up to be an able-bodied, right-minded burden on his family, friends and whatever woman he decides to make his wife. It may seem to be a big leap to make from something so small, but I often say, “small leaks sink big ships”. And if something is going to sink his ‘ship’, it won’t be the fact that he can’t clean his own cajones.
I wish I could wrap this up nicely and tell you he’s an expert at the fine art of washing, but I’m a terrible liar. He’s five and a boy, so he thinks one wipe and no soap will do the trick. I supervise or end up just taking over all together if time doesn’t permit the former. But I’m committed to the cause because I have to be and because I don’t want to be known as the woman with the grown-man-of-a-son that can’t wash himself. Take the cloth, my boy. Just take the cloth.
So tell me mommas (and poppas), when did you decide it was time for your boy(s) to start taking the reigns on caring for his wang?