“Mum, I don’t have a bagina”
“Luca, it’s vagina and do you even know what one is?”
“Yep, it’s when you’ve got no willy in your bottom”.
Conversations like this are pretty stock standard at our place, the only variation is that usually the favourite topic is penises rather than vaginas. I’d imagine any household with so many boys is.
To be quite frank I’m a little sick and tired of talking about them. And seeing them. I know males have a fascination with their penis from the age of about one and that the fascination ends at approximately the time of death, but what alarms me is how early the obsession starts. Not only that but what I find even more amusing is that this fascination stretches for an entire lifetime, I mean don’t they get bored with them? Apparently not.
At the moment Charlie keeps flashing me around the house. He is 3. It usually happens without warning and he’ll say “Mum, WILLY” and then yoink it from his pants and show me. I’m hoping he doesn’t do it at nursery but he probably does so I figure ignorance is bliss and I try not to think about it.
Mainly because we have a bit of a reputation at his nursery. Luca went there too and was going through a phase of finding it hard to remove his hand from his pants for most of his waking hours and this ‘phase’ happened to coincide with his end of year school nativity play.
The play was going swimmingly until the end when the whole class had to stand and sing ‘God Save The Queen’ … at which point Luca decided to sit down, almost in protest, put his hand down his pants and play with his tackle. As if to say ‘sorry I am Australian and I don’t do that anthem’.
His timing was extremely poor and even though Rob and I were dying inside from embarrassment we still sniggered like idiots.
Bloody Australians … can’t take them anywhere.