The Elephant In The Room

I live with three boys and one man. This means that not only is the toilet seat never left down--I would never even think to ask them to do it. I'm just happy when they manage to not pee on the floor (I would just like to point out that my husband is not the problem here, in case you were wondering).  Penises are a daily topic of conversation: their length, their stretchiness, their sudden tendency to stand at attention in the bathtub. We talk about washing it, we talk about covering it, and we talk about it when it's sore, or itchy or cold.

My husband handles all this with aplomb. He can say "penis" with a straight face. For this I am grateful, because it's a talent I do not possess. The word "penis" makes me giggle, along with all the slang terms used in its place: boner, dick, ding-dong, weiner, whang, wanker, chubby, and my new favorite (thanks Urban Dictionary), Russell the Love Muscle.

As you might imagine, NOT having a penis has led to many embarrassing conversations. Like this one:

Jack: You don't have a penis?! But how do you pee?!

Me: Uh ...

Or this one:

Me: Where are my pants?

Jack: You have hair down there?! (looking at my underwear)

Me: Maybe you should stop coming in when I'm getting dressed!

Or:

Skylar: I like your boobs, Mom!

Me: Uh ... thanks?

Or (my favorite):

Finn: You're bleeding. I saw blood on the toilet paper!

Me: Why can't I be alone?!

I know, I know, I KNOW. I'm supposed to be cool and clinical and answer these questions with all the emotion of an android. I'm supposed to explain the mysteries of the female body, including my lack of penis, the unexplained monthly bleeding and why I have to pee sitting down. But I can't. Because the elephant in the room is me. Or rather, my vagina. It's mine, I like it fine, it's been working for me all these years--but I don't want to talk about it. Really all I want is to go to the bathroom alone, where I can wipe in peace, blood or no blood.

I'm sort of dreading the "birds and the bees" lecture that is at some point forthcoming. Luckily, I have been blessed with mostly oblivious children who have at no point (so far) asked me where babies come from, despite my being visibly pregnant in front of at least two of them. I can't even comfortably watch nature shows with the kids, because ohmygod what if those lions decide to get it on? And ohmygod that squid just released a sperm sac and holy hell that cow is giving birth and look away kids! Look away! Your mother is twelve.

I really don't know why I can't just say "uterus" and "vulva" in front of the kids, but for some reason I'd rather say "fuck shit dammit piss knockers bollocks dick asshat." Yes, I'm aware I have issues. No, I'm not in therapy.

Thank god for my husband.