Thursday, September 19, 2013

Penis Envy
Water Weenie 
When I was five years old my mom told me I asked her for a penny to throw in a fountain.  She said I was very deep in thought moments before I made my wish.    The next day I came to her crying because my wish hadn't come true. I had wished for a penis.  Little did I know that my wish would come true four (or five, including my husband) times over 30 years later.
 I had a serious case of penis envy that any Freudian psychoanalysts would have loved.  Let me preface this that I didn't actually know what a penis was, other than a handy device to pee from.  I would watch my neighborhood pals pee against a tree with admiration.  I tried several times, even leaning my pelvis so far forward it could touch the bark, only to give in to the squat.
I thought that if I started acting more like a boy I would grow one.  I got a really short hair cut,  I wore any t-shirt with a number on it.  I played with cars, rode a boy bike ( which I learned that if you fall on the bar with your girl part it hurts just as much as if you were to hit it with your boy part).
Regardless of my efforts, it didn't happen.  I had several water weenies that I would stuff my pants and pretend I was a boy.  I often wondered how boys even left the house when they had a built in water weenie to play with all day.   But like any childhood wish, it became all to clear it was a fallacy. (Cheap pun)
Around fourth grade when we started learning about anatomy is when my love of penises came to a crashing halt.  I. Was. Horrified.  I had it all wrong,  it looked more like Gonzo and less like a sparkly water wiener.
Obviously, a lot happened between fourth grade and now, lets just say I have a new respect for the male organ.   But because I made that wish 30 years ago, the fountain fairy placed me in the middle of a big circle…(family circle.) What were you thinking?
A day does not go by that I am not flashed a penis.  It is a topic that comes up often in our house.  It doesn't matter on the age. Often I would find one of my sons with his hand in his diaper while watching Higglytown Heroes.   I try not to seem alarmed when a toddler proudly shows me how he made his wiener grow.
As a little girl I promised that if I only had one I would never lose it or want for anything else.  What I didn't realize is there isn't a chance any guy could lose it because they are constantly feeling for it to make sure its still there.
I have been in the presence of a male in a professional setting that doesn't have a clue he just adjusted himself  all while never breaking eye contact.  If you are a man,  it seems to be completely socially acceptable to grab your goods and drag it to the other side of yourself, or tying it in a knot, or whatever the hell you are doing when you manhandle your pants while doing everyday tasks, like sitting.
When a women does it, she is either, a pop star or someone you would run away from.
I have learned a lot being the mother of four boys and male dogs.   There is solidarity in the penis.   There is empathy. After the boys were taken by the doctor to get circumcised I unknowing participated in Don's moment of silence.  When our dog was neutered we said a prayer for his penis at dinner.  I didn't feel like explaining that it had nothing to do with his penis.  The topic of the beans will eventually  make its way as the supporting actor, but for the time being I will let their focus be on the frank.
There are days when I grow tired of the penis talk, but when the boys are around Don has learned to limit it.  I get it. Men are proud of their manliness and by all rights they should be.   Women get the credit for giving birth but it wouldn't be possible with out our men and to think how they responsibly took care of it, prior to that moment.
If I could go back in time to that fountain I would tell my five year old self to wish for a big brain instead. and not to worry. You don't need a penis of your own.  That when you are a women, you will be able to find plenty of men that are more than happy to share theirs.


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