pretty much all you need to know about males
Thursday, October 7, 2010 at 10:35AM Today Quin told me I had a big penis. That was very nice of him. I know I'm supposed to discourage that kind of talk, but that deserved a high five.
While it has been neat for me to tell someone else to stop touching themselves, the whole penis obsession has been hard to watch.
I have so many people to apologize to.
Quin is pretty smart, and when he loses to temptation, says, "I know, bedroom or bathroom," and heads off to whichever is closest. We had an interesting altercation at a friend's house. He was in their playroom being way too quiet for comfort. I went to check on him and found our son with his pants down. I reacted with authentic shock and snapped, "Quin, don't do that!"
He ripped back, "Don't look at me!" That's his pre-pre-teen response to anything he doesn't like. He then closed the door, which would have been fine if it weren't glass.
His take on his genitalia is still very innocent. He proclaims that it tickles, and that it can grow. Why wouldn't you be enthralled? What other body part does that? The penis is pretty awesome. Quin celebrated these revelations, or at least that's what I think he was doing, when I saw him in the bathroom, pants down, doing something like air guitar, shouting "penis, penis, penis!" at the top of his lungs. I can't see a girl the same age shouting vagina over and over again. Maybe they're more civilized; maybe it's because it doesn't grow.
Both Quin and Otto need to spend less time distracted and more time focusing on not falling. Otto has an excuse. He's still toddling, and toddling comes with a price. I remember when Quin was first walking I actually Googled, "How many times toddler hit head retarded." I didn't come up with much other than copious anecdotes of parents talking about their children wrecking themselves.
Three out of the last four days, Otto has had an accident report at school. Last week someone bit him. His teacher didn't specify who, I guess worried I'd be bent on retribution against a 16 month old. The next day he had a report for falling and hitting his head. He's got a bruise on his cheek and a small, purple horn on on the left side of his forehead. When you're a guy carrying a baby covered in bruises, our fear-soaked society of Nancy Grace gawkers becomes rather suspicious. I put his hood up when we went into the store.
And then today he had another report. He hit his head again. He has a horn to match on his right side. Now I'm getting suspicious. Who's beating my child? Sadly, it's probably himself, but vengeance against Nathan, Francis or Onofre is starting to sound justified. I'll tell them Thomas the Tank Engine died in a horrible bridge accident.
Yesterday I went into school and the director stopped me before I could get to Quin's classroom. She was urgent about her calm explanation as to why I'd be shocked when I saw my son's nose. Apparently Quin was doing a puppet show. During his performance he leaned too far into the stage, and it went down. He went with it, his face protruding from the stage's opening. A swollen, blue line across his nose depicts where he headbutted a box of puppets.
What's new and weird is being able to have full conversations with Quin. I don't remember when this first happened. In the early days I was never sure what he was saying. His inflection would be filled with purpose and I'd wonder with what to reply. He sounded like he needed an answer, but I didn't want to confirm something that was wrong or deny something that was right. He'd inquire if I were a fascist and I'd get all excited and exclaim "yes!" thinking he asked if I was the fastest.
Yesterday he started talking about his friend Ryan at school. I don't know how we got into this conversation, and I rarely do. Quin declares the strangest things. The other day we were getting into the car and he said he didn't like salad. He was very serious about it. If you want to know anything about marketing and how to brand yourself, just talk with a three year old. They're always letting you know things about themselves that you can't forget. Try that next time at an important meeting. Right in the middle of talk about budget cuts announce that when you touch your penis it grows. You'll never be forgotten.
Anyway, Q is telling me that he's not friends with Ryan anymore because Ryan punches him. I slowed down the car like I was going to do turn around and actually do something about it. I guess the ladies were right not to reveal the biter. I told Q he needed to tell the teacher if Ryan ever hit him again. And it took a lot of strength--and even some more slowing down so I could concentrate--to not tell him to pop Ryan in the nose. As if he'd read my mind, or maybe saw my hands on the steering wheel, Quin conjured a pacifist mantra: "I don't hit people."
His counter punch had me laying on the accolades. That's so good Q, I told him. And it is really good. Now if we can just keep the bad influences from screwing you up, you know, like your dad.
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