I was changing Luke’s diaper (oh, the joys) when his little chubby hand reached down, randomly swatting around, and landed on…it

He looked at me as if to say: Now, you must tell me the name of this new object. This is your duty.

I blinked. What? Now? I thought I had years before I had to deal with this situation. I looked around. No one else there to save me. Where’s The Husband when I need him?

His eyes, again, demanded: Tell me, Mother. Don’t lie.

My brows furrowed.

“Luke! You found your…your…” Um, what, exactly, do I call it?

Do I go proper anatomical and just say, you know, the P-word? It sounds so clinical! I imagined myself in a white lab coat, holding a clipboard, with a pencil sticking out of my bun. “Luke, son, your [insert P-word] is an appendage which is part of your genitalia…” Pass.

I seem to remember hearing other mothers say “pee pee,” but isn’t that confusing? I could just imagine myself trying to explain why that thing was a pee pee, which also produced the other kind of pee pee. The boy is already confused 90% of the time.

“Wee wee?” But, that sounds so diminutive. I wouldn’t want to give him a complex. Then, he’d spend the rest of his life trying to compensate by wearing lots of cologne and leaving his top shirt buttons open. Same goes for “Little Luke.” On the flip side, something powerful sounding like Big Luke just sounds ALL WRONG.

While I was pregnant with Luke, our non-native English-speaking ultrasound tech referred to a “ding dong,” much to my displeasure. (Please refrain from referring to my unborn son’s genitalia with the name of a Hostess snack cake.) *negative buzzer sound*

Willie? (ick) Peter? (huh?) Johnson? (blech!) Weenie? (This reminds me of The Jeffersons. “Weezie!” Also, too Oscar-Mayerish.)

My brain, now, was hurting from these mental gymnastics. I knew I had to stop before I developed an aneurysm.

“Luke…you found your privatesokaymovingonnexttopic!”

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