Woken by screams early last Sunday morning, I jumped out of bed to find a panic stricken 4yo: ‘the dog is stuck in my bum’ he cried. My mind raced through our box of toys like life flashing before my eyes. What plastic crap (or should that be crappy plastic) was I about to have to dig out from my child’s anus? How far can a dog get? Wait, why the hell did he put something up his bum?
Turns out that he had put slinky dog down his pyjamas and managed to pinch his scrotum. Ouch. Apparently this type of thing is common amongst young boys: A story went round my school about a boy who masturbated into a glass milk bottle. Unlucky for him the pressure built up and formed a seal, forcing him to make the tough decision; to smash or to seek help. At least we’re not at that point. Yet.
We’re trying to teach our boys not to be embarrassed about these things – sex is normal, experimentation is healthy, kids do weird things. He asked recently how the baby was going to get out of my tummy, was it ‘through my willy or through my bum?’. Honesty has to be the best policy here. Sex education, gender differences, it’s all part of the same conversation. Both boys now completely understand that the baby will come out of my perfectly designed, fit for purpose, women only ‘bagina’.
I’ve been revelling in the wonder of our 4yo recently. It’s fascinating to watch the development; cultural influences being absorbed and processed by these innocent minds.
Tonight though, he asked about guns. There had been a visit from the Army at nursery. “There was a special hole in the truck for a gun to shoot people… Only the bad people” he said, fully convinced. ‘How do you know who the bad people are?’ I asked ‘like lions and bears, we should shoot them… Can we get a toy gun?’ he replied. This is worse than experimenting with your genitals. Explaining to an excited 4yo why guns are bad is much more difficult than I expected. Especially because we’ve been talking a lot about the recent anti-fascist rally where my parents went to tell the ‘bad’ people they were not welcome in Swansea.
We had another interesting conversation about death when he asked where Dylan Thomas was now. It was a balanced, gentle chat, but it ended in him saying ‘I don’t want to die’ which was not my intention. Then there was the Sandy Hook school shooting a couple of months ago. Several times he played quietly at our feet while adults talked about the horrors that took place. We talked carefully but he listened closely.
These conversations are much harder for me. When he asked about shooting bears I went off on some tangent about endangered species rather than addressing the futility and horrible loss of war. When he flippantly announced recently that his teacher has really big nipples, it was me who fumbled around explaining that it’s not very nice to talk about other people in that way. So I’m learning not to get too hung up on it. 2yo asks ‘can I look at your willy’ in the same breath as ‘don’t look at my poo’ or ‘can we do a puzzle?’. And both are far more concerned about having another cartoon/yoghurt/toy/chocolate than how babies are made.
I’ve also learned not to let them take slinky dog to bed.
Working mum of three 