I know what you’re thinking: why hasn’t Dad and Buried written about his son’s penis?
Well, you’re in luck!
Last week, I shared the news that Mom and Buried and I are having another boy. Included in that news was the latest ultrasound of said boy, complete with a shot of, as one Facebook commenter delicately put it, “his junk.” Yes, apparently, in my haste to reveal my son’s gender, I revealed my son’s gender. (All this while my other son, the one who’s constantly on my wife instead of currently being in my wife, simply wanted to see his little brother’s butt. For some reason.)
I’ve already confessed that, having been the proud owner of a male child for coming up on five years now, I was kind of hoping for a girl this time around. That, plus the fact that I was never really one of those “I HAVE TO HAVE A SON!” guys to begin with, meant I wasn’t exactly sitting at the ultrasound squinting my eyes, trying to find that fifth limb. Not that I had to squint, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN!
When you’re a parent, you see a lot of your kid’s genitals. A lot. Like way too much. Like, WAY TOO MUCH. That’s just the way it is. If that really freaks you out, maybe reconsider having kids. (On the flip side, if it really doesn’t freak you out, definitely reconsider having kids! And maybe getting some therapy.) But it’s just another ho-hum part of parenting, another unfathomable thing that becomes routine, and it’s just the tip of the iceberg. JUST THE TIP.
My thoughts about my child’s genitalia, should I have any (and I don’t! The following thoughts notwithstanding), concern two things: their existence and their health. I’m glad that when we were told he was a boy his body came with a penis, because otherwise that would be weird. But other than that? I honestly couldn’t care less.
Frankly, it would be weird if I did. My son’s crotch is my son’s business.
Aside from considering whether or not to brutally mutilate my son’s genitals and/or protect my son from disease and/or make my son’s genitals look like mine and/or make my son’s genitals look the way Jesus wants them to look (depending on where you stand on the circumcision spectrum), my son’s penis isn’t something I thought much about before he was born, and it’s not something I spend much time thinking about now either. Thank God.
Some impending fathers get very excited when that weird little X-Ray image reveals what may be a sizable member on their fetus. In bad sitcoms and stupid movies, you might even see an elated dad high-five his wife, or his friends, or anyone else in the room. According to one actual, real-life friend, his ultrasound technician gave him kudos. But I think my friend was just bragging. About the size of his unborn baby’s penis. (As if the size of the image correlates to the actual post-puberty size. Maybe he’s a grower; you don’t know, smug ultrasound technician!)
I couldn’t care less my kid’s divine hammer is big or small or macro or micro, outside, perhaps, of how that affects his state of mind and self-esteem. I still don’t know whether size really matters to women, but I know it definitely does to a lot of men, and if Detective Munch is one of them, I just hope whatever he’s packing is enough to satisfy his own ego. Either way, it has nothing to do with mine. My son will always be my superhero, but literally the last thing in the world I care about is the size of his Mjolnir.
If I’m gonna high-five someone about something related to my child, it won’t be about his unit. It will be because he’s done something kind or accomplished something worthwhile, like identifying “Eleanor Rigby,”, or memorizing Kevin Spacey’s monologue from Seven, or actually sleeping past dawn.
I don’t care if my little prince is wielding Excaliber or Needle. Size doesn’t matter to me. Just so long as it pricks.