"Daddy, that's your penis!" she exclaimed with that mix of subtlety and discretion that only a toddler can muster. In a public, co-ed change room.
Hrm, I think a couple of points of clarification are in order here.
As parents of a daughter who is genetically-bound to grow up with something larger than a supermodel frame, my wife and I are very cognizant of the societal predisposition to body shame that she is likely to grow up surrounded by. As a result, we've made two decisions that ultimately led to the somewhat-awkward scene of the two of us standing in the swimming pool's family change room stall with my reproductive organ as the topic du jour.
Firstly, we've tried to be chill about the whole nudity thing. This isn't to say we wander around with our bits out as a matter of course, just that on the not-as-rare-as-you-might-expect occasions that our daughter has opportunity to see us naked (and my fellow toddler parents totally know what I'm talking about here), we don't run screaming to cover ourselves up. If I left her in the locker portion of the room she might've bolted for the pool, right? So I brought her into the stall while I changed. No biggie.
Secondly, we're sticklers for terminology. Again, we don't seek out every opportunity to show her penises (penii?) and labia, just that we don't talk around the issue when she does encounter them. No weewees or front bums for our family. Parts have names and words have power. If we aren't willing to call a spade a spade, what message does that send?
So yea. Doesn't that all sound good in theory?
"Yes love, that's Daddy's penis."
"I don't have one of those. I have a 'gina."
"That's right love."
See? It's a teaching moment. It's all good. She's learned a fundamental lesson about human biology. Score one for progressive parenting. Unfortunately, I don't carry ditto sheets of our little theory around in my back pocket.
So when we swung the door of the stall open and headed back to the central locker area, the look on the woman at the next locker over's face suggested she was perhaps not as on board with our parenting style.
Which made the next exchange all the more...interesting.
"Will I have a penis when I am a boy, Daddy?'"
Who knows what the future will hold for my daughter, right? So I handled it the only way I could.
"I suppose so, kiddo."
And with that, the other parent hurried out of the room, her kid in tow.
As a parent, I feel an inordinate amount of pressure to prevent my kid from making the same mistakes I made. Granted, everything I experienced as a child made me the man I am today—no regrets ‘cause the ends justify the means and all that, right?
Still, I feel like it’s my job to impart the wisdom gained from youthful indiscretions so she can avoid some of the awkwardness and lingering regret I still feel when I look back on so much wasted time and energy.
I am talking, of course, about listening to terrible, terrible music.
From an ill-fated preteen foray into the likes of New Kids on the Block right through to regrettable “12 cassettes for a penny” music club list-fillers like C&C Music Factory, my early musical tastes were—to put it mildly—eclectically disturbing.
Even an awakening around age 14, when I first discovered the discordant joys of punk rock and the harmonious splendor of the mid-90s rock and alt scene, couldn’t completely prevent the creeping in of regrettable influences.
I had a Creed album, for crying out loud. CREED.
By the time I helped spawn life into this world, though, I’d settled into a pretty solid rotation of dirty, soulful folk; pissed-off, political punk and ska; and various rock to round it all out.
And in the early days it was easy enough to impose these tastes on my unsuspecting daughter. We’d bounce around the living room on Daddy-Daughter Ska Dance Saturdays, kicking and spinning to the Planet Smashers or Less Than Jake. I’d rock her to sleep with a mix of Danny Michel and City and Colour. Even the kids’ music was a throwback to my youth—Sesame Street and Muppets instead of Wiggles or Backyardigans.
But my control—my beautiful, simple control—is already slipping from my gasp. Not even three years into this world and she’s already developing her own tastes.
“Not that song, Daddy, I want my songs.”
It’s tolerable for now—we have largely dictated what influences she’s exposed to. But that too is starting to change.
“Where’d she learn the Itsy-Bitsy Spider?”
“Dunno, must’ve been preschool.”
And that’s where it starts.
Today she’s singing Itsy-Bitsy Spider. What’s tomorrow? A serious case of BieberFever? A nasty bout of OneDirectionInfection?
As parents we want to coddle our kids; to protect them from the evils that this world seems so eager to foist upon them. But we have to fight that urge. I want my daughter to be an independent, strong woman like her mother. I want her to carve her own path. I want her to make her own decisions, learn her own lessons and live her own life.
I just don’t want that life to have a crappy soundtrack. Is that really too much to ask?
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