It was bound to happen. Especially given the amount of time we spend naked together. Bub found my penis. I don’t mean he discovered it, like Boron or Atlantis. He CAMEACROSS IT a while ago.
No, it’s more like it just caught his eye. He’d walked past my window display a hundred times, but my fall line-up really spoke to him.
He was flabbergasted.
And in that very moment, I was humbled by the power of language. I could have called it anything, anything in the world. It could have been an oscillator or sedan. Parking ticket. It would have stuck. That guy that named the titmouse has to live with that.
We have strictly avoided baby-talking this kid, so I wasn’t going to start with my wee-wee or pee-pee. Yet, penis seemed a little too clinical for a two year-old.
I also had to consider that everything he relays under his current grammatical regime can be (and often is) construed as an insult:
Anyway, I panicked. It didn’t help that he’s standing there, pointing at my crotch, demanding answers. I chickened out, in a weird way. I pointed at mine, then pointed at his, made some sort of nod-nod gesture, then for some reason, said:
Whatever. Nobody’s perfect. I just wasn’t ready. I’m sure it’ll come up again. No pun intended. Just might want to think twice about hitting Bub up for a high five.