No, I'm Not Going To Kiss It

Well, it's official.

I was responsible for my son's very first accident involving his... well...

Family jewels
Big Bubba and the twins
Beans and Frank
Groceries
Hoo-hoo-dilly
Wanker

Yes, male readers of the CMG, feel free to lambaste me at your leisure. I shall take it like a woman.

You see, Bubba was playing on his Pooh Bear Train. He would propel himself toward me as fast as he could push himself off. Then I would stop the train with my foot, give him a second's adjustment of his forward momentum being stopped, then shove the train backwards. He loves it. We've done it countless times! He giggles and squeals with delight! And I smile because doing this means I don't have to push the damned thing around and around and around and around.... the kitchen island. Back-breaking work. Anyway, it was all fun and games until I forgot to give him that split-second pause. And I shoved too quickly, and he "racked his balls" - as the Ty-man puts it - on this:


He stopped. And I could tell he wanted to cry but he didn't. He just said, "Ow." very, so very softly. And I realized what happened. I said, "Oh no! Do you have an owie?" "Yesh." was the quiet reply. "On your penis?" I queried. "Yesh." he responded. And then he said the one thing I was dreading.

"Will you kiss it?"

We kiss all owies in our house. Elbows, hands, faces, knees, yadda, yadda. But this was a first, a private-parts injury. And, um, yeah. Not kissing the Beans and Frank.

So, I tried not to laugh at his question and instead said, "Honey. When you hurt your penis, I can't kiss it. Neither can Papa or Esha (his word for Miss-Miss) or J-man or anybody else. No one. But I can give you a hug."

"OK." was his sad little, whispered reply. And then he got back on the train and zoomed around the house, owie seemingly healed.

And that is how I avoided getting my name on a national sex offender's list.