The Joy of "Junk"

The male genitalia. For a dangly tube of skin, guys sure do hold it in high regard. And as the mother of four boys, I can say with 100% scientific certainty that the interest starts in early childhood. From the time they reach down to give it a squeeze (or ten) during a diaper change, a boy's hand and his junk are never far apart.*

*Which is pretty much why you should never let a boy touch you without washing his hands first. Or at least keep sanitizer on your person at all times.  

Never having been in possession of my very own penis, its allure to its owner mystifies me. I mean, I don't stand around naked after a bath and flop my boobs around (although my husband probably wishes I would start). Okay, so I might do other slightly unconventional things with them, but still. Nobody has ever told me to stop wrapping them around my fork or get them out of the crackers or stop dipping them in my brother's milk. I can't recall the last time I ran into the living room in front of company, waggled them shouting "Weeeeee!" and then ran away. Or tried to flap them so hard they made a slapping sound, or stretched them out as far as they would go, or tried to make them float in the bathtub, or groped them as I watch TV, or dangled them in front of someone's face.*

*Except maybe once when I had too much to drink. Don't judge. 

The point is, no matter how many expensive toys and gadgets boys beg for, nothing will ever equal the stretchy, squishy, amusing (and portable!) entertainment that their genitalia provides. (Or the cringe-worthy moments that happen in that "gray area" of early childhood when they're still learning what's socially acceptable). At my house lately, we've had a string of incidents which make me marvel that the boys' goods are even still attached to their bodies. For example, that time with all the tape (let's just say we're lucky there were no pubes to further complicate its removal). And most recently, when one of my dudes came running excitedly up to me (okay, waddling with his pants around his ankles) and said, with immeasurable pride in his voice, "Mommy! Look at my penis!"

And I did. And the whole thing was kind of ... yellow. And before I could say anything, he led me to the bathroom, where he closed the door and turned off the light.

And I couldn't see anything in the pitch-darkness except a.) a small, handheld black light and b.) my son's little. GLOWING. Penis.

It's amazing what a highlighter pen, a black light, and a creative child can do.

See? Endless fun. I swear you could offer them a 350-million-dollar winning lottery check, rolled up inside the hollowed-out horn of a unicorn, dipped in the tears of Jesus, and they'd just be like, "Eh," because their hands were busy with their most precious possession. The value of which, apparently, is beyond compare.
They even sleep holding onto it, as though it's going to mysteriously vanish while they slumber:

Coby on the left; his father on the right. And don't make fun of my couch. I was in college.

Boys and their toys.

Click here, here, and here for a few more of my favorite penis-centric posts.



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