That's Not a Toy

"In spite of the six thousand manuals on child raising, it's still a dark continent and no one really knows anything. You just need a lot of love and luck. And, of course, courage." - Bill Cosby

There are times when your child says something so ridiculous, you can't help but laugh. But sometimes you laugh, and then you worry. You do a double take. You say, "Wait...What?"

And so the Peanut said something so outrageous, so outlandish, so out-of-the-blue bizarre, I was compelled to call my mother-in-law to offer an unsolicited explanation. Because, you know, me and my MIL are phone buddies. We chat all the time about sports, politics, knitting, our much-anticipated family trip to Disney. Not only did I feel the need to justify myself to her after what Peanut had said, I thought I may need an attorney.

Luna's cow will play the part of Peanut

Our story begins one night a few weeks ago. While we were all upstairs changing into our pajamas, Peanut grabbed a small plush toy drum that has attached drumsticks. She then proceeded to dangle it between her legs and say, "Look, daddy, it's my penis."

Wait... What?

For the record, My Director and I don't exactly flaunt our business in front of Peanut, but we don't hide it either. We laughed, then explained once again about penises and vaginas. But like a little honey badger, Peanut didn't care. She didn't give sh1t. Thus, for the remainder of the evening, she decided to endow herself with a toy drum penis.


What am I more worried about? That she thinks a penis is a toy, or that she thinks a toy is a penis? I have to admit... she gets bonus points for creativity.

The incident was never mentioned again. Until...

Fast forward to yesterday morning. My mother-in-law had stayed the night to spend some time with Peanut. Once a month or so (that's plenty) she picks up Peanut from school early, they spend the afternoon together, and she sleeps over.

Pink Wii controller penis

She was trying to wrangle her into her jacket to take her to school. That's when Peanut grabbed her pink Wii controller, struck a sultry pose on the arm of the couch, and proudly stated, "Look, (Grandma), it's my penis!"

Now, my mother-in-law is a bit conservative when it comes to such vocabulary. She is on record as being against our use of "penis" and "vagina," even though that's what those things are. (Don't get me started.)

"Sweetie," she said. "We don't talk about our private parts like that."

"It's ok. Me and daddy play this game all the time."

Wait... What?

As My Director is telling me this story, we're laughing of course. But after the hysteria died down I still needed some reassurance. 


"You did tell your mom there's no penis game, right?"

"No. I don't think I did."

"You didn't? Did she sound concerned? Or was she laughing?"

"Well, she didn't sound concerned but...you know how she is."

"Yeah. I do. Get her on the phone."

She dialed since I was still cleaning the pots from dinner. (Yes I cook AND clean. I'm a catch, ladies.) I squeezed the phone between my ear and shoulder as it rang more times than I had expected. Now I'm thinking... "Uh oh. Is she avoiding the call? Am I going to have to leave my explanation on their machine?"

Finally she picked up.

"Mom, it's me," I said trying to suppress laughter. "I just want to be clear." I couldn't do it. So with an audible smile I said, "There is no penis game."

How many guys have said that to their mother-in-law and meant it? Thankfully she didn't need much convincing and we all had another good laugh.

Now I have to worry about Peanut repeating the same thing at school and child services knocking on my door.

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What the Hell Was I Thinking?

"Happiness is having a large, loving, caring, close-knit family in another city." - George Burns

I'm an ideas guy. It's how I make my living, after all. I take my and others' ideas and make compelling television out of them. But this...this was MY idea.

My Director and I decided to finally succumb to the wicked yet awesome power of the princesses, join the mainstream and take Peanut to Disney World. But when? Well, what better time than her birthday in March? We avoid a pricey birthday party with all of those unnecessary (but appreciated) gifts and make her 5th birthday (holy crap she's turning 5?!?!) special.

This, despite my penchant for penny pinching and insistence on not spoiling her. Sometimes you just have to say, "What the hell." We've realized over the past few months that due to physical, emotional, financial, and professional factors, Peanut may ultimately be an only child. So we're no longer going to wait to do the things we want to do with her. And if Peanut's going to be "all in" on princesses, we're going to be "all in" on taking her to see them if and when we can.

photo from www.wdwforgrownups.com

You may be asking, "That's the idea you're talking about? Disney? Big deal, DKL." No. The idea - or bad idea, depending on how you look at it - is going with my in-laws. Not just going with them, but staying in the same room with them.

Maybe I can sleep in that volcano

I'm not talking about a suite here, either, people. Two queen beds side-by-side with a pull-out for Peanut. One bathroom. Let me allow that last part about the one bathroom sink in again while I remind you I am lactose intolerant. One piece of cheese and I'm a ticking time bomb counting down to a volcanic eruption. Something tells me there will be multiple sightings of DKL scurrying through the lobby of the Polynesian Resort squeezing his cheeks with a newspaper under his arm. By the third morning, I expect to be on a first-name basis with the restroom attendants.

And these people - my in-laws - are old, mind you. They snore. They will probably have a lot of unusual toiletries displayed on the vanity that will cause me to become uncomfortable with a mere glance. My father-in-law has to sleep hooked up to machines because of sleep apnea.

"Your dad has to check that machine of his onto the plane?" I asked.

"Of course he does," My Director responded. "If he doesn't have it he could stop breathing and die." Well that would spoil the vacation, now wouldn't it?

Yes it was my idea. To save money... and it did. Saved us thousands. My Director was the one who hesitated. "Really?" She asked while checking my forehead for signs of fever. "Absolutely," I said without pause. "If you want the pricey resort we're staying in one room."

After the trip was booked and we enjoyed some birthday cake in honor of my father-in-law's 64th, Peanut asked for more ice cream. My mother-in-law, forever the chronic spoiler, automatically chimed in with an instant, "Oh, sure." Of course. Why shouldn't she have more ice cream? It is her birthright, after all.

"Disney ought to be a blast," I deadpanned.

Then, overcompensating, my mother-in-law, suggested, "Maybe I shouldn't go."

That's not going to happen.

What the hell was I thinking?

Maybe I'll just sleep by the pool.

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Rise and Shine

"I want adventure in the great wide somewhere... I want so much more than they've got planned." -Belle from Beauty and the Beast

I have a bone to pick with Disney. A big bone.

This morning I opened my refrigerator to get me some unsweetened almond milk for my cereal. (Yes...almond milk. Lactose is one of several things I can't tolerate. bullsh1t is another.) That's when I caught her. Belle, and her dirty little secret. She may be the Peanut's favorite princess. But I have my doubts about how much princess she is after I surprised her with my pre-dawn breakfast run:

What the hell is this?!

Talk about morning wood. If I weren't so confused, I would have been impressed. I mean, she's awake and loving it. Just look at that smile on her face. Even more impressive when you consider she accomplished that in the cold climate of the fridge. What had her so excited? The almond milk? The Greek yogurt? Upon further inspection I noticed that when the door is closed, Belle is face-to-face with the butter. Whatever turns you on, sweetheart.

What is perhaps most bizarre about Belle's plastic-straw erection is that it's facing up, like the wrongly-repaired statue of David in The Goonies:

What the hell was the Disney design team thinking here? No matter which way you turn it, this cup is uncomfortably inappropriate. Put the straw in the back, and you're drinking out of her a$$ like the human centipede. In any other position, it looks like a catheter. Or worse, a colostomy tube. This is product design fail at its very worst. And my daughter drinks out of this cup. Requests it.

After this use, I'll be sure to bury this thing in the cabinet so it's out of the Peanut's sight and hopefully out of her mind. I just cant get it out of my mind. Just like Ken's bizarre mangina:

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The Worst Pain in the World

"Children are a great comfort in your old age - and they help you reach it faster, too." ~Lionel Kauffman

Image courtesy of noiseushop.com

Nothing hurts a guy worse than a kick in the nuts. Physically speaking, of course. 

I'm sure the ladies out there will say the same thing about a smack in the lady parts. But I'm a guy and I'm telling you, a kick in the nuts is worse. THE. WORST.

It makes you hurt. It makes you sad. And it makes you angry. Very, very angry. Because nowhere are you more vulnerable. And when you get kicked in the nuts it's just like, well... getting kicked in the nuts.

Let me set the scene for you...


One evening, the Peanut and I were roughhousing on our bed. She was jumping as I was laying there, as we got ready for bed, right before we settled down to read a book.

But one rogue leap changed the mood.

She landed, full-footed, on my babymaker. Ironic, I know. And since we're on the subject, you should know that I was in my pajamas (a pair of Syracuse basketball shorts) and I don't wear boxers to bed. The point of that bit of over-sharing about going commando is to illustrate there was very little protection for my little bicep.

I immediately hid my face in my pillow. It hurt so much I wanted to scream. But didn't. Couldn't. Not in front of her. It's not a macho thing. It's a being a good parent and not scaring the bejesus out of the Peanut thing.

The initial surge of pain wore off. Then came the dull ache. Every guy knows the dull ache. It feels like your groin is 700 lbs. Then you get nauseous.

Covering my face with my hand, I turned over and told my wife to get the Peanut out of the room. Immediately if not sooner.

Here comes the anger. You can't help the anger. Even when you're with your buddies and they're all laughing at you and you're kind of laughing too, you're still just pissed off. And you can't wait until you're physically upright so you can punch the first guy you see in the face.

Even though it was an accident, even though she was sorry and actually felt really badly, I wanted to throw my daughter across the room. The important thing is I never would do that. "Just please get her away from me," I asked, and buried my head back into my pillow.

My wife kindly obliged.

The pain subsided. The Peanut apologized. Genuinely. I accepted. Genuinely.

And I'm sure I will live to reproduce again. If we are so inclined. (But still, not anytime soon.)

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Dude Looks Like a Lady

"I'm not a girl's toy. I'm not. Why do you guys keep saying that?" -Michael Keaton, in his masterful performance as Ken in Toy Story 3

There I was. Laying on the floor after another long day. I lay on the floor for several reasons. To play with the dog. To stretch out. And to cool off.

But my fun and relaxation came to an abrupt end when I innocently turned my head for what was supposed to be a split second. I couldn't believe what I was staring at. I was face-to-face with him.

He's so pretty.

Ken.

And not just Ken. Buck-naked Ken.

Suddenly, I was awash in awkwardness. Partly because I couldn't take my eyes off of him. So disturbing and yet impressive at the same time. And partly because not only was I marveling at his physique, but at his situation as well.

Quite the pool party

You see, Ken was laying there, with a big sh!t-eatin' grin on his face, in the Peanut's Barbie pool... with two women. Having a good old time. Lucky dog.

I stared at him, more like grimaced uncomfortably. With the Peanut safely tucked away in bed, I had an open forum.

"Why is Ken naked?" I asked my wife.

"That's what she does. She takes off their clothes and plays with them naked. We could be in trouble when she's older."

And then, my wife... the reserved one of the two of us. My straight man, if you will. The Abbott to my Costello... she says, "Maybe she's headed for a life on the pole."

Oh. My. Gawd.

I couldn't believe she had just said that. I definitely didn't want to think about it. Thankfully, she changed the subject saying, "I most certainly remember Ken having underwear. And he certainly wasn't as pretty."

I looked at Ken again. Is he pretty? Now a new set of emotions is bubbling up inside of me.  She was right. He is pretty. I'm not afraid to admit it.

Bad enough he's got the perfectly chiseled body. Now he's got to be pretty too? Just look that fabulous head of hair. So jealous. And if I'm not mistaken, he's wearing lipstick. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Now it was time to investigate the first part of my wife's statement. I forced myself to look where his underwear should be. I said the only thing that came to mind.

What the hell is this?

"So you're saying your Ken doll growing up didn't have a man-gina?"

"No," my wife said holding back laughter. "He definitely didn't have a man-gina." (I love her for repeating "man-gina.")

What is UP with Ken's man-gina? They couldn't mold him some plastastic boxers or something? All the clothes they have for this guy... and he suddenly goes commando with his man-gina?

Barbie is one thing, with her stereotypes, curves, and cliches. And always with her constant nudity too. Now I've got to deal with Ken and the whole other boxload of innuendos and awkwardness he brings. A Pandora's boxload, if you will.

I'm not sure which situation is more disturbing: the Peanut's insistence that these dolls always be naked. Or the fact that I can't stop looking.

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The Naked Truth

"Sometimes life seems like a dream, especially when I look down and see that I forgot to put on my pants." - Jack Handy

Thanks to my daughter, a few strangers at the Gap now know that I wear Papa Smurf boxer shorts. I was trying on pants in the dressing room while my wife was occupying the peanut. When I called my wife over for her opinion on whether my new threads were a good fit, my daughter refused to enter the dressing room.

Is Smurfy Sexy?

So now my wife wants to try something on and the peanut still won't budge, and for no other reason than we wanted her to. By this point, I had taken the pants off, revealing the aforementioned Papa Smurf boxers. Two women walk by the open door. Now I'm annoyed.

Still refusing to listen, I grab my daughter's arm and pull her into the dressing room with a stern, "Get in here now!" She freaks out. I try to calm her down, for her, for me, and for the people overhearing this chaotic scene from the other dressing rooms.

I tell her I had to do it because "it's inappropriate for strangers to see daddy in his underwear" (Papa Smurf underwear, mind you).

She brushed me off, then moved on. Maybe she didn't think anything of it because my daughter herself finds every opportunity she can to take off her pants. I will come home and she will be lying on the couch watching television, in her undies. Or playing in her playroom. When does this start being weird? At what age? At this point, I think it's mostly a comfort thing. It's been hot out, and we don't turn on the air conditioning unless it's absolutely necessary.

But there have been times when we try to compel her to wear pants, leading to a tantrum.

Thus, I've invented a new term: the "temper pantrum:" when your child throws a fit because you're forcing them to wear pants.

That's an actual phone call I received from my wife one morning at work. "I'm going to be late for work because she was so difficult this morning." So I ask, "Why she was so difficult?" The answer: "Because she didn't want to wear pants."

I was speechless. What do you possibly say to that?

When I picked her up later that day, I asked the teachers, hypothetically, what they would do if we dropped her off in the morning and she weren't wearing pants. "That's fine," one of them politely responded. "We know you guys do your best."

If our best is sending our daughter out in the world half-naked, then we're in trouble, lady.

To take this from the ridiculous to the even more blog-worthy... one morning she and I were horsing around in her playroom. Wrestling on the floor. My wife was sitting on the couch, cheering us on. We were having a great time. Laughing out loud, tears in your eyes kind of funny. She'd jump on me. I'd tickle her. I was truly afraid for my safety at certain points because she was hurtling herself at me with such reckless abandon.

All of a sudden, she ran out of the room. Was she getting something? No... she was getting rid of something. Her pants. We played for another minute, and she ran out again. Now what? She returned without a shirt. We kept playing, she only in her underwear. I said out loud, through my laughs, "ok this is getting a little weird."

She left a third time. My wife, trying to catch her breath, simply coughed out forebodingly, "Oh, no..." I thought to myself, she's not going to come back naked is she?

Of course she is. "Honey," I attempted as our laughter reached hysterical heights. "Remember how daddy tells you sometimes that things are inappropriate? Like when you ask me to tickle (my mother-in-law)?" She's paying me no attention as she belly flops on top of me. I lift her naked kicking body, holding her above me like Supergirl and try to explain through her giggles. "You have to put your underwear back on," I say while repressing my laughter. Followed by the jackpot: "Wrestling naked is inappropriate."

You can't expect a four year-old to sit there and listen and comprehend everything you're saying, especially after you've gotten her riled up like I did. Especially when you're throwing around big words like inappropriate.

But my God... I hope that last lesson sinks in eventually and sticks for as long as possible.

Speaking of "inappropriate," click on this and read if you dare. But be warned: TMI. No... really. EXTREME TMI.

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Say Hello to My Little Friend

"Like all the best families, we have our share of eccentricities, of impetuous and wayward youngsters and of family disagreements." - Elizabeth II

**TMI WARNING. A LOT OF IT. MENTAL IMAGES CANNOT BE AVOIDED. CONSIDER YOURSELF WARNED.**

Some way or another, we each endure our awkward stage. My wife had her braces, her ridiculously enormous glasses, and was developing breasts. I had a mullet, a gut, and coincidentally, was also developing breasts.

During these tough, formative times your parents are quick to point out how beautiful you are, that you'll grow out of it, that it's just "baby fat." But they don't warn you about another awkward stage to come a lot further down the line. Why would they, really? They're saving us from the dread. They're also secretly looking forward to it. I'm talking about the unavoidable subjects that will most assuredly arise during parenthood.

We recently had our first instance...

There's really no other way put this, so here goes: my daughter is a little too obsessed with my pen!s for my liking. Yes, writing that was just as uncomfortable for me as reading it probably was for you.

Let me try to make a long story short.

When we go upstairs to put on her pajamas, I do the same. So she sees me naked. At this point, I don't know if I'm more surprised that you're still reading or that I'm still writing.

One day the inevitable came: "What's that, daddy?" She was pointing and smiling innocently at, appropriately enough, my babymaker. What I wanted to say was, "That's where you came from." But with a straight face, and with as little apprehension in my voice as possible, I answered, "That's daddy's pen!s."

(Oh my GOD I just wrote 'pen!s' again.)

Now, by no means do I invite these situations. But in the natural course of the routine, she occasionally sees me naked. Naturally, she's curious. And, naturally, I have no idea if I am positively informing her and making her comfortable with the human body, or scarring her for life and slowly making her realize that men are really disgusting (which I guess she'll learn eventually anyway).

She is relentless in her pursuit of information. Every time we go upstairs I'm now posed with the frightening question, "Where'd daddy's pen!s go?" That's not a question any male wants to be compelled to answer. What if, God forbid, you don't know the answer? Fortunately for me, so far I've answered correctly and confidently every time. "My pen!s is my pants, sweetheart."

"Why?" she asks. "Because that's where it belongs." Such a good response, if I may say so myself. In more ways than one.

The fact that this is all totally innocent and natural does not make it any less awkward for me. Still, just when you thought it was safe to go back in the water... the other night she was in the bath, playing with her toy fishing pole, trolling for turtles and pelicans and sharks. She then proceeded to identify the fishing pole as her pen!s. So that forces the conversation about girl and boy parts. And who has a pen!s and who has a vag!na.

And then she sees my wife undressing for bed, points at her breasts and blurts out, "That's mommy's pen!s." Huh? Then, on Easter Sunday of all days, my daughter is standing there as I get out of the shower. She points to my naked body and asks, "Where's daddy's vag!na?"

(I have now grown accustomed enough to writing the word 'pen!s' that I have stopped holding my breath every time I type it.)

And I guess that in itself is a victory, a breakthrough, a start at least. We said early on that we'd refer to human anatomy with their anatomically correct terms. I refuse to give my daughter the shaft. And shy away from her curiosity about the male form like a scared turtle cowers in its shell. Bring on the tough questions, little girl. I've got answers. They might not be the right ones, but I've got 'em.

That's pretty much the long and short of it.

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