Despite the fact that I consider myself a feminist, I can't bring myself to grow a full-on '70s bush. I just can't do it.
I'm sorry. I guess I'm part of "that" generation. The generation that just can't stand pubic hair. Maybe I've been brainwashed by the media? Maybe I'm not a very good feminist? (Question: is body hair a pre-requisite for feminism? Probably not, but it seems like all the good ones have pit hair, at least . . . )
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.
My son is now ten months old, and only recently did I stop getting into the bath with him. This seems ridiculous, I know—but it was the easiest way (I found) to bathe him without fear of losing grip of his slippery body or without crushing my ribcage against the hard porcelain tub. Therefore: bathtime for Cole also meant bathtime for Mommy.
When Public Grooming Goes Awry
