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Wienergate – Sometimes They Get Big, Sometimes They Don’t

If you find talk of male genitalia, or genitalia in general, this post is not for you. Read no further…

Oh the joys of raising boys. With all of this machismo in the house, I have a hard time deciding how to handle certain situations when it comes to the men in my life and their, ahem, “special equipment.” My son has just turned four, and while he has always been fond of his dongle, he has recently become kind of obsessed. It is alarming at times to watch him man-handle his man handle, because he pulls at that thing like he’s firing a sling shot. Don’t even get me started on the balls. Yes, he called them that when he exclaimed “look mommy, I have two balls in my butt!” By the way, everything in that general area is referred to, by him, as his butt. That is unless it is his unit, which he calls his wiener.

My son’s wee wee is a topic of conversation that comes up daily, at the very least. We continue to remind him that he should only play with his ding dong during private time in his bedroom. I gently but firmly tell him to stop humping the bed, as I am reading him a bedtime story. I am trying to instill a sense of privacy when it comes to his privates, without making him feel ashamed or embarrassed and I try to do all of this with a straight face while he yells “look how big it is mom!”

If you have boys, what do you do when this pops up (gratuitous pun)? Please share your thoughts and ideas with me. And as my four year old says “sometimes they get big, sometimes they don’t.”

Bonus points if you kept track of the various euphemisms used in this post for the word penis.

The Zombie Apocalypse Starts With Me… And a few other individuals.

I am convinced that my family is the catalyst to the end of the world via Zombie Apocalypse, and let me tell you why. For the last year and a half, my husband and I have been attempting to conceive a second child. I am just going to throw this out there, I am of what “they” consider “advanced maternal age.”  I am pretty sure this particular pejorative was created as an attempt to be polite when calling me an OLD LADY, but I don’t think it is any easier to hear. Hearing that you are of advanced maternal age still conjures up visions of ovaries resembling dried prunes, support hose and rows upon rows of various face creams.

I finally decided to go get checked out to see what the heck was taking so long. My midwife suggested we do a post coital analysis to start. Yes, this is as gross as it sounds. Nothing like somebody shining a light on your vagene right after you’ve been soundly shagged. “Welcome to infertility, please check your dignity at the door and don’t forget to tip your speculum.” The results of this test were not positive, in fact my midwife called me over to take a peek at what was under the microscope. “See how they’re all dead?” she said. “Well that explains things, doesn’t it?” I said. She passed along some information on a clinic that does sperm analysis and I packed up my hostile vagina and headed home to share the news and take the next step in the process.

The next day we packed up and headed to Costa Rica for 7 days. We drank like fishes, while our son swam like a fish, and we had a terrific time. When we got home we went to visit some friends and there was a little accident with my son that resulted in an ER visit and a CT scan. Before going in to the room with him the tech said “are you pregnant?” I laughed and said, no. What I was thinking was “not with his dead sperm.” I didn’t feel like it was the right time to make jokes. My baby wasn’t doing to well right then and I wanted to get the hell out of there.

Fast-forward two weeks and something was definitely afoot at the circle K. I knew it wasn’t possible, but I had to check it off the list, so I peed on a stick. No shit, that dead sperm produced a pregnancy! And this is how the Zombie apocalypse begins. I am now gestating the undead. Not only that, but the “zombie” as we now lovingly refer to our little fetus, has had a small dose of radiation to boot! Our radioactive little bundle of joy is due in October. I’ll keep you posted on necessary preparation for end times as the date grow nearer.

Picture by Skepclectic Mom: MUST EAT BRAINS!!!

Picture by Skepclectic Mom: MUST EAT BRAINS!!!