My dad doesn't like that we call my son's penis a penis. "What else should we call it then?"
"A pecker!" He said, without hesitation. I laughed. Oh yes, clearly that's better.
Every now and then, my dad's red neck shows a little bit, and we get into little debates. Usually he just rolls his eyes at me and smiles. I think to him I look like a politically-correct-quinoa-eating-breastfeeding-hippie—but I'm okay with that. And I'm going to call my son's penis, a penis.
When I was pregnant with Cole I was a pampered pregnant princess. (Okay, that is a lie. I only added the word "princess" because I really liked the triple alliteration there.) Nothing about me is princessy, but looking back, my first pregnancy memories are shiny and sparkly, that's for sure.
I've been obsessed with names my whole life. When I was little, I gave names to the bunnies in my wallpaper border. In University, I wrote a whole essay about the importance and power of names. I've even named my reproductive organs: Eggnes, Eggelica, and Carrie — my uterus.
See, I'm obsessed.
I also have an ongoing list of names on my phone, and like to practice pairing them up with my son Cole's name:
