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  American Midol

American Midol: Confessions of a Mama Eunuch

Female castration isn't funny at all.

But parenthood drives us to do many unplanned things like androgynize ourselves for the sake of the Greater Good.

See, I'm the mother of Joe an affable, inquisitive, and extremely verbal three-year-old.

He's also a devout and exuberant Freudian.

Joe's thinks everything revolves around that noblest member of male solidarity: the P-word that rhymes with Venus.

(And sweet turnips! the boy's LOUD.)

Each day my cherub openly shares who he believes boasts a Mr. Dangly.

"Daddy has a [P-word]," he'll chime during church, happy to earn my most clinical nod.

"Uncle Freddie has a [P-word]," he announces to the soups and beans of aisle seven.

"Grampie has a [P-word]." The librarian isn't pleased. But the parenting books preach maturity in these matters, so I tell Joe he's right.

The list marches forth, with Buddy (our dog), Bob (the Builder), and so on.

Fine.

Until, last week, I find myself at the mall with two things:
  1. My son.


  2. A full bladder.
As the stall door latches, the Hailing of Endowed Comrades begins.

"Spider-Man has a [P-word]."

I silently honor the talented engineers who designed this tile-and-porcelain shrine to Acoustic Excellence.

"Yes, Spider-Man's lucky like that," I mutter.

"You have a [P-word], Mommy."

"No, honey. Only boys have [P-word]-es." Two chuckles near the soap. One muffled snigger from the abutting matron.

His blue eyes dart down to the stealthily-concealed area that's hovering over the can.

"What do YOU have, Mommy?" A cacophony of teenage cackles.

And that's when it hits me. I'm avoiding the OTHER word at all costs.

I'm not giving it to him, and you can't make me. I don't care if it's not enlightened, or it puts him at a disadvantage in health class. I don't even care if he misses out on the triple-word-score in Scrabble.

From here on in, Mommy lacks private parts. They simply don't exist.

Let Ms. Ensler keep her monologues. My son's soliloquies need no additional fodder.

"Wanna piece of gum, Joe?"

"Yeah!"

He may steal my organs, but my exploitive parenting techniques? NEVER!



Enjoyed this American Midol column? Or diabolically incensed by its uselessness? Either way, you're invited to check out all of Lani Voivod's Midol spasms right here. Wanna sound off on this subject? Send your feedback to comments@deadbrain.com!

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