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I found Henry in my closet. He was naked and sitting amidst my shoes and a pile of clothes that I have been meaning to bring to Goodwill.
Apparently, he had been trying on the bras.
I must note here that these brassieres were no ordinary brassieres. Rather, they were the industrial-strength, over-the-shoulder boulder-holders* that I wore when I was pregnant.
Henry ran over to me; his eyes wide and his expression earnest. “When me little teef fall out and me get da big teef in my mouf (he paused to tilt his head back and open his mouth wide) den I’ll haf dose (he pointed to my chest) like you!”
I was wholly surprised. Ummm, maybe? My mind leaped to hormone treatments, psychotherapy and surgery. I searched for the right words to use. Then I shook my head. He’s three. “Henry,” I said gently, “You are a boy. I am a girl. Boys don’t have breasts, just like girls don’t have penises.”
I could see that he was processing this information. He reached down to touch his penis. A second later, he flopped down on the carpet. He was laughing. I started laughing, too. “Alright, buddy,” I said, “Time to get dressed.”
As long as you’re happy, Henry. I will always love you.
* I don’t know who coined the phrase “over-the-shoulder boulder-holders” but Bette Midler’s character used it (or something like it) in the movie “For the Boys.” I thought it was a great description and I never forgot it.Last week, I was informed that for the past month, Henry spent his weekly “swim time” parked in a chair instead of paddling in the pool. His recalcitrance had spread to the other children and was now an “issue.”
Indeed.
I hate to swim. Not only am I a sinker, but I am uncomfortable in the locker room. I never know where to look.
Nonetheless, I agreed to go swimming with Henry.
On swim day, the kids’ flailing, spinning bodies skimmed across the classroom like spandex encased tumbleweeds. A teacher commanded the group’s attention (no easy feat) and they sat down for a pre-swim snack. As the kids munched on goldfish and blueberries, Henry’s friend X called to me.
“Henry’s Mom!” X said with a smile. “My Mommy….you.”
I could not catch X’s voice from across the room. “What, honey?” I asked, while wishing for coffee. Did I have time to run out for coffee?
The second time, X’s words were crystal clear: “My. Mommy. Can’t. Stand. You.”
Ahhh. Got it. Message received.
How was I supposed to respond to that? With a neutral “Thank you for sharing”? Or maybe a snarky “Tell her I feel the same way”? But I was caught off-guard by X’s comment. I recalled chatting with X’s mom on numerous occasions. In my recollections, she was always friendly–often saying hello and initiating our conversations.
I quickly concluded there was no appropriate response and I made none. Soon, snack was over and we were on our way to the pool. Henry was happy to swim with me and I delighted in his delight.
Later, as I reflected on X’s statement, my own Mommy-voice echoed in my head: “It’s OK. You aren’t going to be friends with everyone.”
OINKtales 
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