Where I Say Penis 40 Times on the Morning Commute

This is a true story.

The only reason I'm telling you is because Bill said I had to.  I was whining to him that I was terrible mother, feeling sorry for myself and sorry for my children that luck drew them this cruel card.  He laughed his a$$ off and told me I had to write this down for you.

Because it's real life.

This is the story of the morning I said the word penis 40 times parked in the car, on the side of the road, in front of a bus stop.  Enjoy.

It was Valentine's Day.  About 8:43 a.m.  Just late enough to make a difference.  The morning had been tough, but not impossible.  A bit of prodding to eat breakfast, to brush well, to find shoes that matched and to hurry out the door.  

I got the kids in the car.  Remembered the lunches.  Remembered my keys.  Things were looking up.  I turned out of the driveway, and on to the main drag.  A busy street that wasn't plowed well at the time after a big snow.  It was then it all started.

"Mom.. . I need some help."

"Yes Cole. What do you need?"

"My penis.  My penis is wrong."

"Wrong? What do you mean, wrong?"

"Up.  You know.  Up in my pants.  Up in the car seat."

Cole is still in a 5-point car seat and sometimes the buckle in between his legs catches him just the right (or wrong) way.  It's not so much a matter of his penis being uncomfortable as it is the pressure of his pants against his buckle. . .but nonetheless, it was wrong.

"Well fix it.  I can't pull over until we get to school."

"But my penis mom! My penis is up!"

I'm annoyed.  We had just had a ton of snow and around here, that has major implications for things like driving and parking when you show up late for work.  And I have about 3.5 minutes of leeway here, people.  Certainly not enough time to be fixing penises.  

"Cole. Fix your own penis. That's final," I say in my this-is-final-and-every-other-mom-cliche-voice.

Till starts in . . .

"Yeah Cole. You have to fix your oooowwwnnnn penis.  This isn't a car for everybody to fix everybody's penis, you know."

"Thank you Tilly. That'll be enough."

"Even my princess? They fix penis.  They fix their own penis and go to the ball, silly."

"ENOUGH Tilly."

 "I just can't mom.  I just can't fix my own penis.  I can't even get at it."

In one hand he's holding a paper bag full of valentines cards for his friends.  He practically slept with that bag he was so excited to give them away this morning.  In the other was a stuffed sea turtle.  A story for another day.

"You're just going to have to put something down and fix your own penis, Cole."

Now Cole gets angry.. .

"No MOM. I won't. I can't fix my own penis. It's up and my penis won't come down and you have to fix it!"

This is where I start to lose it.  I have to pull over.  I'm late yet another day and I have to pull over on the side of an un-plowed, un-safe road.  Which, just to help set the scene, is a super busy, one lane road that about 4 gazillion people drive on each morning and who, quite frankly,  are super-jerks who won't let you merge back on for anything.  And I don't want to do it.

I pull over.  In front of a bus stop.  Don't think I realized that at the time.

"Fine Cole.   If you can't take care of your own penis, then fine."

Crazy, crazy stuff starts to come out of my mouth.  Crazy stuff about taking responsibility for one's penis.  Checking a penis to make sure it's in the right spot so that your mom isn't late for work.  Asking Cole how he thinks he's going to manage with a big-boy penis if we're having trouble with this one.

Tilly is practically repeating everything I say.  Crossing her arms and nodding her head in approval of my ranting.

"Yes, Cole.  Gotta handle your penis. It's the only way."

"Your penis makes mom have a tough job.  I don't have a penis.  So I'm a good girl."

I'm grabbing frantically, angrily behind me. . . clawing at anything that feels like a penis.  He sits right behind the driver's seat and remember. . .this is a busy street with no breakdown lane.  Cars and vans and milk trucks [okay, that's dramatic...are there even milk trucks anymore?] are whizzing by my car, shaking it from side to side.  I'm not opening the door and I'm not getting out.  The only thing that makes sense at this point is to get super angry at Cole's penis for putting us in this position while contorting my body (still in a seat belt) to reach directly behind me and into Cole's pants.

It doesn't work.  I pull something in my neck and the pain, hot and intense, travels literally from the back of my right ear all the way down to my hip.  And that's when I get madder than I can remember being in a long, long time.

"COLE. This. Is. RIDICULOUS. There are so many moms who don't have to pull over to tuck in little boy penises that aren't even big enough to be up anyway!  Why can't you handle your own penis?  It's your penis! Won't there be one morning before you are 18 where I get to work on time and without a stress headache?!?!"

I know it was the pain talking.  The pain, and the thought of walking in the slush for two blocks after I finally found a parking spot at work.  I was wearing nice shoes. . .not remotely appropriate for the weather and they were as good as ruined at the rate we were going.

And I lost it.  You know? The way you just lose it sometimes?  Right? . .tell me you lose it sometimes.

Except this time was over a penis.  A five year old, defenseless penis.  Not my best moment.

I unbuckled my seat belt, threw one leg over the console and started to fish in Cole's pants.  His penis, by the way, was not up but merely tucked inside the flap of his undies.  I fixed it.  All the while saying crazy, angry things like. . .

"Other moms don't do this with their mornings. Their boys tuck in their penises before they leave the house."

"I tuck in my penis, mom."

"Yes, thank you Tilly.  Mind your business."

I finally looked up at Cole and his pupils were wide.  Big, slow, soap-opera worthy tears started pooling in the corners of his eyes and rolling down his face and that's when I realized I was a serious contender for the worst parent of the year award.

"Mom. I'm so sorry.  I just don't know what my penis thinks sometimes.  I just can't help it. It does what it wants, usually."

[enter joke here about figuring that out early. . .arf, arf.]

You know those times where apologizing won't ever be enough?  Those memories that you have when you know something had changed? That life changed? A corner was turned, a life moment reached that you will forever share with your therapist as, "the day you knew. . ."  This was certainly going be Cole's.

"Oh gosh buddy.  Mommy's sorry.  Mom is so, so sorry.  Sometimes moms get so mad and they say silly things.  Your penis is great.  There's nothing wrong with you or your penis.  Mom loves Cole and his penis."

"And Tilly loves Cole's penis."

"Yes, thank you Tilly. That is nice."

Cole wipes away tears and asks for a tissue.  "It's okay mom.  Everyone makes mistakes, right?"

"Oh yes, Cole.  Everyone makes mistakes."

At this point I'm fully in the backseat, jammed between two car seats with my hand still in Cole's pants.  We hug.  I wipe tears. I say sorry again.  And I look up.  Faces. . .in the windows?

. . . there's about 5 people waiting for the bus right on the side of my car that must have been watching this THE ENTIRE TIME.

Effin-a.  Why me?  Why is the day I finally break in front of a bus stop and over a penis?

I smile nervously.  Put up one hand in a half-wave sort of way and mouth 'good morning.'  Get back into the driver's seat.  Slap both kids a high-five and off we go.

It's  9:05 a.m. 

I'm not only the worst parent on the planet, but have probably just given my child some sort of serious psychological penis issue. . .AND I'm late (again) for work.

I drop the kids off at school and hope they won't say a thing about our drive in.  Tilly runs into her teacher's arms and as they watch me walk down the hallway to leave...  I hear Till say . . .

"Mom doesn't get that angry at my penis. I always tuck it in."

Oh shit.