Penis Awareness is Not a Gateway Drug

Today I saw an article that highlights some of the craziest things doctors have had to tell patients about their own bodies. I thought, “These are hilarious, but they cannot be real.” Ten minutes later I changed my mind when I saw another article. This one talks about how parents have their boxers in a bunch because a baby doll actually has male genitalia instead of that weird, nebulous, overextended taint most dolls have.

For anyone as clueless as the mother of two who didn’t know why she was bleeding every month, simply telling your daughter about penises will not get her pregnant, scar her for life, or jump start an otherwise completely unnatural early sexual awakening. She won’t contract a disease, suddenly become a brazen hussy, or start a career on the pole. She might, however, continue on with her life as usual, less interested in the no-longer-mysterious, dangling appendages in her classmates’ pants… At least until she hits puberty.

My only complaint is, “So where’s the baby doll with a vulva?”

The Bubble Struggle Is Real

Bubbles are the greatest thing to ever happen to a 2-year-old… As long as she can do it herself, which she can’t. And because she can’t, bubbles are the most evil invention known to man.

When a child sees bubbles, even if she’s seen them ten thousand times, all other things in life lose their meaning. Slides and swings are abandoned. Temper tantrums are forgotten. Fruit snacks are cast aside like boiled brussel sprouts. Bubbles are fun. Bubbles are magical. Bubbles are a huge pain in my ass.

When your kid starts showing interest in bubbles, you naively go buy a simple, small bottle with a traditional bubble wand. You picture yourself blowing bubbles while your little one runs and giggles with pure, sugary delight. But the reality is that as soon as you open that bottle and pull the wand out, your toddler will shout, “I wanna do iiiiiiiittt!!!!” She’ll grab for the wand, pouring half the bottle of bubble liquid in your lap. Congratulations. Your pants are wet and soapy and your kid has quickly elevated from Level 1: Calm to Level 2: Agitation. You think, “Ok, I’ll let her try. She blew out her birthday candle. She can do this.”

You hand her the wand, and she immediately sticks it in her mouth. Now she’s spitting, wiping her tongue, and crying, all at a Level 3: Distress. You try several times to show her how to do it, but she either can’t blow hard enough or insists on holding the wand at forehead level. Either way, not a single bubble is produced. She’s approaching Level 4: Hissy Fit and you’ve had enough. So you take a risk and tell her, “Let mommy blow some bubbles and you can pop them!” This suggestion sends her into full-on, red alert Level 5: Seething Tantrum, and as she flails on the floor, kicking your shins, the remaining bubble liquid seeps stickily into the space between your toes.

My kids like bubbles

After you’ve recovered from this incident, you get the brilliant idea that what you need is a battery powered bubble blower. You start with something small and hand-held but it only works for five minutes before crapping out. Those first five minutes are glorious and gratifying. But they aren’t worth the disappointment and tears you’ll have to quell. For anyone who hasn’t been through this yet, I will save you from the long, arduous discovery process: there is not a single battery powered bubble blower in existence that will actually function properly for any significant period of time. If there was, every single parent would own one. They’d be handed out at the hospital as part of your take-home kit along with diapers, wipes, and your trial pack of formula.

I recently reached a point where I was completely ready to give up on bubbles. And then I found the Melissa & Doug Sunny Patch Bella Butterfly Bubble Blower. (Christ, that’s a long name.) It has a mouth piece on it so there can be no mistake about where to blow. (That’s what she said.) And BISCUIT CAN DO IT!!! Halle-fucking-lujah, she can do it!

As it turns out, the damn thing is also a pathetic attempt at a musical instrument. It makes a horrific whistling sound that is just one octave below a dog whistle.

But at least she’s happy.


We live in a high-rise building in New York, which is neighbored by other high-rise apartment buildings, and so naturally my father-in-law gifted us a pair of binoculars. These binoculars have allowed us to witness private photo shoots, the perfect 10 applying her makeup in only her thong (which I was sure only existed in movies), and even a dead fucking body being pulled from the East River. Today I was mopping my living room floor when I passed by the bookshelf where we keep said binoculars. As I saw them laying there, two things suddenly occurred to me:

1) Earlier this morning Biscuit woke up as I was finishing my shower, and it was all I could do to get pants on before she started demanding things of me. I never quite got around to putting a shirt on. Therefore, I was mopping with the girls out.

2) It’s quite possible that any one of our neighbors also owns binoculars.

So if I show up on some housewife fetish site, please know that I was not a willing participant.