So you’re sitting there, it’s evening, and you’re watching TV. It’s been a long day and you’re exhausted. Your mind is drained; carrying on a conversation at this point would be as daunting as advanced calculus to a four year old.
You happen to glance to the side to see an inquisitive preschooler eyeballing you up and down as if you’re a space invader who just moonwalked to her front door.
“Why are you staring at me like that baby?” I asked.
“Daddy, you’re a boy … Do you have a wiener?” my daughter inquired.
I felt as though I had just walked face-first into a glass door. That question took me completely by surprise.
Clueless as to the appropriate response to give a three year old, my brain just threw up its hands and said, “You’re on your on bub.” I was torn between not wanting to lie to her and knowing this wasn’t the right time for this particular conversation. This had “Mommy territory” written all over it. But she wasn’t home so I couldn’t defer to her.
I’m not good at explaining this type of stuff–thoughts flee while I try to grasp whatever G-rated info was in there. I was never told about this sort of stuff by my parents; I had to learn it myself.
Finally, I went rogue and pulled an audible that would at least buy me some time. I turned the question around, “Where did you even hear that from?”
I learned that apparently she was playing with our male Husky dog. During their game of tug-of-war he rolled over and she saw his penis. He’s going through his puppy puberty stage so every time the wind blows … yeah, out comes the lipstick. Being a curious three year old, she decided to poke it. Her seven-year-old sister walked in and said, “Ew! Don’t touch his wiener!” To which she naturally replied, “What’s a wiener?” Sissy explained that all boys have one and it’s what they pee out of.
Then it dawned on me: the reason she’s been staring at me like I shit my pants is: she thinks I have a dog wiener (which put a weird image in my head).
The front door opened, and in walked my freedom from mind-blowing conversation. I jumped up from the couch, gave my wife that “boy am I glad to see you” kiss, and said, “Your older daughter has the younger one convinced I have a dog wiener. Your move.” I walked out the door to carry in the groceries from the car, leaving her with that shitty pants look on her face.
Some might say that was cold. But look, I’m a man. I build stuff. It may sound old fashioned, but I don’t explain why girls pee sitting down and boys prefer to stand up. If the kids want to know why you don’t wire a 15a breaker with 12-2 wire, or why you measure twice, cut once, that’s my department. Anything about penises or vaginas, please refer to Mommy.
Randall Prince is the proud father of two daughters, a three year old who is a fearless troublemaking Daddy’s girl, and a seven year old who is a mello-dramatic Type-1 Diabetic future Paleontologist. You can read more on his blog, Dad of Daughters.
Photo credit here.