You can play with your own penis; don't play with your brother's.

A just for fun post

I'm a mother to two boys. One just turned three and the other is about to turn seven. They both discovered their fun little between-the-legs appendage when they were babies, happily slapping the thing around and watching it bob in the bath water.

They both prefer to go au naturel around the house, and honestly, they'd prefer never to have to get dressed at all, but alas, cultural norms--and in winter, the elements--demand the wearing of clothing when we go out. 

A couple years ago, the older one came up to me, lamenting, "My penis is all straight like a railroad track." Slap, slap, slap. "Why did it do that?" Slap, slap, slap. "I just want it to be floppy again." Slap, slap, slap. It's all I can do to keep from laughing when I tell him, "If you stop touching it, in a little while, it'll get floppy again."

They still take baths together. The older one prefers showers, so they usually have the shower running for him and the drain stopped to catch bath water for the little one. Not infrequently while they're in there, I'll hear the cry from the elder, "Mom, he's touching my penis again!" I sympathize with the little one. When you're sitting and your brother is standing, his little willy is going to be right at eye level and make for a mighty tempting tugging toy. And that little one is a gleeful and mischievous little fidget. If he can see it, he'll want to play with it.

But the older one doesn't like it, so I intervene and remind the little one, "You can play with your own penis; don't play with your brother's." And I helpfully point his out to him again, while thinking that that's not a phrase I imagined saying when I signed up for this motherhood thing.

You can play with your own penis; don't play with your brother's.

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