Dear Me and You, Face Vulva Butt
Dear Me and You,
It’s silly, the idea of calling something a pussy because it’s weak or shows emotion because– as we have all heard the jokes– a pussy can take a pounding; in fact, a pussy or as I teach my kids a vulva can take some rough love, consensual rough love of course, and when I say I teach my kids… I mean the anatomical term of vulva, not the fact that a vulva can take and enjoy rough love, or that dad and I call the act of that rough love: Pound-Town.
The term vulva is used with frequency in our house, in part because there are four females and mostly because we have established that not every night needs to be an essential-oil infused bubble bath, embracing that our kids are exhausted from their days, and I see them when they say, “Mama, I don’t want to shower, I’m tired!” And when I say ‘they say’, I mean they whine, yell, and lament in a very triggering kind of way. Yes, that’s #momlife. And yet, I understand; so, we have established the “Face, Vulva, Butt Shower”, which is always in that order and only has to last as long as it takes them to wash their face, get in between their labia (and if that makes you uncomfortable perhaps you evaluate your comfortableness with your body and the vocabulary around your body) to thoroughly clean their vulva, and then end with their butt. I don’t tiptoe around the importance of hygiene, or smells, or discharge, or everything in between… literally.
My husband and I attended a how-to-keep-your-kid-safe-from-pedophiles workshop (not the official title) and a lot of it was redundant for us and I’m thankful that we had already (and by we I mean me and my husband was immediately on board) established a lot of the suggested language. In an unusual twist of events I can accredit some of my candor with our children to my own childhood. Was it because my dad was German and nudity was the norm? Was it because my mom wanted to break generational cycles and decided showering in her bra and underwear was more weird than being naked? Or was it a brilliant accident? I think it was the former; afterall, my mom sat me down with the iconic book, Our Bodies Ourselves, in elementary school, teaching me about my body before the vague and awkward sex ed class.
I’ve been asked how we handle a team of girls with my husband and his body. We handle it in a few ways. We follow the lead of the girls; they are seven, five, and three. They still shower with my husband. They have been through and are (mostly) done with the phase of discovery– I mean they are at eye level, so I’m not surprised they would ask questions about his penis or testicles. If playing in the stream of water that forms off my pubes is fun, then of course they will wonder about the “thing” that is flopping around at eye level. My husband says, “That is my penis, and no, I don’t want you to touch it, that’s my body boundary.” And before you come at me for the idea that my small child may reach out to touch my husband’s penis, I’d like you to sit down and take a breath… or maybe four like Daniel Tiger suggests; kids are curious, that’s a given and normal– what’s important is how we handle it, how we teach, and how we set boundaries. We don’t shame for curiosity. We don’t shame for questions. We don’t shame for mistakes. We don’t shame for anything. So, when my child attempts to poke my husband’s penis and he responds with, “Yup, that’s my penis, and I don’t want you to touch it, that’s my body boundary,” it’s valid and appropriate. I often follow up, “Do you have any questions? I know it looks different than your body.”
Parenting is challenging– obviously. So, I suggest letting go of your hang ups about words (explicit too but that’s a conversation for another day) regarding your body and their body. It’s a gift to empower your children with the correct words for their body. It allows them the ability to speak or think about themselves with education, power and no shame– and I can’t speak for you but that’s my goal.
We made it through another day, me and you.
Kudos.