Raising a boy by myself comes with a great deal of challenges- some that I am simply not equipped to handle.
When my son was born, the nurses in the nursery nicknamed him the Jordan River- because he was a little piss pot. Every time you took off his diaper, he peed all over the place.
When he was a week old, I was taking him to get his newborn pictures taken. I had the tub set up on the kitchen table to give him a bath. I took his diaper off and BOOM. Pee covered shirt. I started learning to quickly put a washcloth over his little thing to keep myself free of golden showers.
Trust me though, when you have a son, you will get peed on. And often. There is no stopping it that first few months.
My dad had tried to explain it to me: “Don’t you know when he is hard he is going to pee?”
Ummm no. No, I don’t, Dad. I don’t have a penis. Not sure how all of this works. I never made a habit of like watching my boyfriends piss. Sorry, but that just doesn’t do anything for me.
Once you learn to deal with a little boy pissing all over everything, the next challenge comes: he is going to discover that he has a penis and he is going to constantly be touching it. And once a boy STARTS touching his cock, he never EVER stops as long as he shall live. It then becomes the issue of keeping his hands away from it because he will play with it. And he will laugh while playing with it.
And you will stand there stunned, and extremely embarrassed and uncomfortable.
I did exactly what I should have done in these situations. I lied to him. I told him if he didn’t stop playing with it that it would fall off.
Then, sometimes he has serious, legitimate questions that I am not prepped to deal with like if I had a daughter who was getting her first period. One day as he was getting out of the bath tub, I guess it was a bit cold in the bathroom. There was shrinkage. And he panicked. He didn’t know what was wrong with it, but he knew something was wrong. And it took all of my strength not to laugh as I envisioned George Costanza standing there insisting, “I WAS IN THE POOL! I WAS IN THE POOL!”
Now, my son is going through this phase where he hates clothes. I mean he just fucking hates clothes. When I get home from work every day, sure enough, he is running around the yard in boxer briefs. I cannot get this kid to keep his clothes on. If we go out, as soon as we walk in the door, he strips down to his underroos. Really? His excuse is always: “My clothes are making me sweaty.”
Naw, dude. YOU running around like a holy terror with his hair on fire 24/7 is making you sweaty. That and it is 98 fucking degrees outside. WE ARE ALL SWEATY.
Oh, and he is like Al Bundy reincarnated. Constantly watching TV with his hands in his pants. Oh, and he loves to run around naked screaming “I’m naaaaked! I’m naaaaked! Look at my ting ting!” Please for the love of all that is sacred and holy in this world, just put your penis away, kid! You are traumatizing your mother!
Teaching him how to stand up peeing? Christ. This was just not fun teaching him how to aim. I have no issues with this personally.
This is once again where my dad was zero help. A few weeks ago, I put a package of toilet paper in the corner behind the toilet. He asked what genius in the house did that. I said me. He asked what the hell I was thinking because it would get peed on by him, my son, or my brother.
How is this MY problem, dude? If you can’t aim, more a problem with you and less with me and my “lack of common sense.” I’ll be sure to ask you tons of questions about Tampons the next time we spend some quality time together. And then I’m going to glare at you and act like you’re an idiot when you have no idea how to answer.
The whole potty training thing eventually got better, but this just leads to questions about the difference between boys and girls. Mind you, I have not pissed by myself if 4 1/2 years. He loves me so much we have to spend every moment together.
My Son: “Mommy, why do you pee sitting down? It’s cause you don’t have a ting ting huh?”
Me: *Sigh* “No, Mommy doesn’t have a ting ting.”
My Son: “I just have a little one. PapPap and Uncle Mike have BIG ting tings!”
Me: *Running out the door crying*
The other day, he poked me in each of my breasts and counted them “One-Two.” I scolded him and told him he is NOT allowed to touch girls like that. “But why do you have two of them?”
This is nothing compared to about a year ago the comment he made. I was getting him ready for bed and he says to me, “Mommy, I like your pink shirt…I like your boobs too.”
“Oh my God! You cannot say that to girls!”
“It’s okay, Mommy.” (He proceeds to grab his own chest.) “I like my boobs too.”
Frozen. How do I even respond to that when I want to die laughing?
I’ve also been asked what his nipples are and why he has them. I gave him the honest, cold hard truth: “All babies start out as girls and girls have nipples, so you kept them.” He actually accepted the answer.
Raising a boy without a father to deflect questions off of is full of hilarity, but a hell of a lot of disturbing moments. Puberty may be the death of me.