Morphing into Mama

Children Know How to Conserve Their Energy

Children of blind parents usually cry without shedding tears. Children of deaf parents usually cry without making sound.

Children don't waste energy. They do what works for them.

Functioning Incompetent

Did I tell you what the kids gave me for my birthday this year?  I didn't?  Oh, well!  They were extremely generous.  Not only did I get an unlimited supply of mucous, which I spent the last four weeks coughing up, and the worst laryngitis I've ever had, I also received my very own case of pink eye.  Their generosity knows no bounds.  And, as you might guess, it was a birthday I'll never forget.  No matter how hard I try.

And though my birthday was on a Saturday, I was still celebrating on Monday with Bah-bie who had her own goo-filled eye and a nice hot yet chilly fever of 104.  We had a lovely time putting drops in each other's eyes and huddling underneath all the throw blankets in house while watching Thomas get chased by Diesel 10 for a reason that continues to baffle me no matter how many times I watch that horrid movie.   But what was even more horrid than that movie was the fact that I had to call in sick to work for the 20th time in six months.

First, there were those two weeks in November when the family had the "throw-ups."  Bah-bie brought it home, then Husband got it, then Tod-lar, and then me.  From that one illness alone, I lost 10 whole days of work and school.  A month after that, I got the flu.  A few weeks that, Tod-lar had a fever of 105 with no other symptoms.  Then Bah-bie got a cold, Tod-lar had pink eye, then we all got colds, and Bah-bie, Husband, and I had pink eye for what seemed like a week.   

So . . . I have already missed over two weeks of work in just six months.  (And this doesn't even include the days Husband took off to take care of the kids.) 

Having to take all this time off work so my kids could strengthen their immune systems got me thinking about MomsRising, an organization ". . . working toward cultural and political change to build a more family-friendly America" (as their website states).  MomsRising wants to stop discrimination against mothers in the workforce.  They want mothers to receive equal pay for the same job as men.  These are necessary and important goals.  But I can't help but wonder: Is this enough to create a more family-friendly America?

Equal pay and laws against discrimination are necessary structural changes.  But it seems to me that something else needs to change if we ever want to be truly "family-friendly."

I had a friend who used to be an attorney.  She was well-liked at her firm and was given great cases for which she had a lot of responsibility.  When she got pregnant, her partners remained supportive.  They even gave her a trial the latter part of her pregnancy.  At nine along, she may have been huffing and puffing from the weight of that baby, but she was cross-examining witnesses.  Then she went on maternity leave.  When she returned to work six months later, she decided to go part-time, which meant she would only work 40 hours per week and not the usual 60.  That's when the well dried up and she began to die on the vine.  No one gave her work.  She literally spent the next eight months writing a few research memos and doing a lot of online shopping.  Angry, frustrated, and bored, she eventually quit. 

What had happened is that the structure of the firm's benefits had changed.  The new structure enabled my friend to take a six month maternity leave and return working only 40 hours per week.  This was definitely a change from the 4 week leave and no option to work part-time, which had been the structure only a few years before.  What hadn't changed was the perception her partners had that mothers who are trying to balance work and kids are less committed to their work and, therefore, can't be trusted with important assignments. 

It seems our society values those who give their all to their work.  These are the people who are usually promoted and perceived as successful.  Sure, we talk about balance and how it's better for our well-being and all that crap, but the fact is that people who can devote what seems like endless amounts of time to their work are the ones who get ahead and all the accolades. 

This is why I felt so awful calling in sick to work for the 20th time.  I was concerned about being perceived as a "slacker" by my employer, especially when compared to all the other interns who are mostly single and childless and, thus, are able to devote far more time to work than I can.  But the awful feelings don't stop there.  Instead, they morph into guilt.  That horrid mother-guilt that wakes you in the middle of the night because you think your first priority is and should be your children and that employer be damned.  And how could you even feel bad about calling in sick to work when your little one's eye is swollen shut and she's so weak all she can do is curl up next to you and say "Mama" in that tiny voice over and over again.  Then the guilt turns into feeling torn.  You feel you can't do anything really well.  You feel as if you're a functioning incompetent.

Structural changes are a good start but, to me, it's only the tip of the iceberg. 

Do Yourself a Favor . . .

. . . and go read this.

Far From Gullible

Last week, I had a session with a father and his teenage daughter.  At one point, the father was complaining how his daughter questions him all the time.  When the father tells her to do something or not do something, the daughter responds with questions rather than just doing what she was told.  When I asked the daughter what her perspective was, she said she just wanted to ensure she had all the information so she could assess for herself whether or not she should do it.  The father saw this as defiance, but she saw it as thinking for herself.

I thought about that session the other night, after I put Bah-bie to bed.

"Honey, Dada's not home.  Dada's on an airplane.  You will see him in a few days.  Understand?"

"Yesh!"

"Okay, so you need to lie down and go to sleep.  It's time for night-night."

"Night-night.  Bye-bye."

"Night-night, Honey."

I closed the door and went downstairs to call Husband.  His plane had just landed, and we chatted while he waited for his luggage.

"I thought you were going to take your truck to the airport."

"I was.  But when I went to leave, it wouldn't start, so I had to strap my suitcase to my motorcycle."

"Ohhh --"

"OWSIDE!  OWSIDE!" I hear Bah-bie screaming from her crib.

"Great.  Bah-bie's screaming now.  She's probably upset because she didn't get to see you.  I'll call you back.  I have to go talk to her."

"Why don't you take the phone upstairs, and I'll talk to her."

I went into Bah-bie's room.  She was standing, facing the door, with her arm pointing behind her towards the window overlooking the street.

"Bah-bie, Dada is not here, but he's on the phone.  Do you want to talk to him?"

"Yesh!"

I held the phone to her ear.  She started talking immediately.

"Iagiah aghae yhgh tuck owside.  Iagiah aghae yhgh tuck ouwside."

That's when I realized she didn't believe me when I told her Dada wasn't home.  How he could be gone when his truck is parked right outside? 

She was quiet for a moment as she listened to Dada.

"Yesh!" she said.  Then she waved at the phone and said, "Bye-bye."

I kissed her one more time and shut the door. 

I went back downstairs and talked to Husband.

"What did you say to her?"

"Well, I could tell she thought I should be home because my truck is parked outside.  So I told her I was far away, and I would see her in a few days.  Then I told her to stop screaming and go to sleep."

"What did she say 'yesh' to?"

"I asked her if she was going to go to sleep."

"Well, she must be asleep because she's quiet now!"

After we chatted for a few more minutes, I thought about the father and daughter I'd worked with last week.  Bah-bie's not even TWO years-old, and she's already questioning me, unwilling to take me at my word.  She needs all the information so she can sort things out in her own mind.  She's already thinking for herself, critically.  This made me feel so proud. 

And scared.

Blogging Keeps Me Sane

If it wasn't for blogging, I would have thrown my laptop against the wall after reading this article.  But because I blog, I was able to harness that energy and use it, hopefully, for good. 

You decide.

Conflicting Agendas

You know what's great about Tod-lar turning 3? 

His language skills are so much more advanced. 

Now we get to have all kinds of interesting conversations.  We talk about his friends at school (but not in a gossipy kinda way).  We reminisce about past events -- including things that happened LAST YEAR (note to self -- kid has a good memory).  Tod-lar tells me about things he wants to do in the future, like fly an airplane, climb Dada's office building, and ride an old train.  He warns me when sharks are approaching at the supermarket (don't ask, cause I don't know), and reminds me to buy Dada's coffee.  He even corrects my English.

"Careful standing on the railing, Bud." 

"No, Mama.  Dat's not a wailing.  Dat's a gate.  Dat's a wailing," he says pointing to what is so obviously the railing as he stands on what is so obviously a gate.

"Oh.  You're right!" 

Maybe he should start editing my blog posts.

But you know what's a little more than slightly annoying about Tod-lar turning 3? 

His language skills are so much more advanced.

Now, whenever I tell him to do something, he says, "Okay.  But first I need to . . . " and then we have to negotiate whatever it is he needs to do first.  Or sometimes he'll just say, "No, thank you.  I don't want to." 

At least he's back to being politely defiant. 

As the Tod-lar gets older, not only does he have his own agenda (which, frankly, he's always had), but now he has the words to express and negotiate that agenda.  And while it's cute and wonderful and all that happy horse-shit, it also makes me long for the days when I could just dress him myself and get his ass out the door on the time.  Sure, even back in those days he'd still poop just as we were walking to the car, but he couldn't help that.  Now, however, he has control over his poop, yet we're still on the verge of being late because Tod-lar can't get his shoes on because he's "busy," or he can't brush his teeth because he's "still talking to Bah-bie." 

At night, Tod-lar negotiates his agenda in a more sly way.  Right when I'm tucking him into bed, he suddenly wants to discuss the meaning of his existence ("Why I here, Mama?"), or show me every little bump and bruise on his legs and tell me each of their stories, or ask me questions about myself.

"Why you have new gwasses, Mama?"

"Honey, you know my glasses aren't new, and you asked me that question last night."

"Oh.  Why you have new wegs, Mama?"

Uh, yeah.  You're not fooling anybody, pal, with that bedtime-stalling-maneuver.

"That's the last question I'm going to answer tonight, Bud.  You may ask me more questions tomorrow.  After I answer that question, I'm going to close your door and go downstairs to spend time with Dada, understand?"

"Yes!" 

"Good.  Now, I got new legs because that shark you're always warning me about ate my old ones."

"Oh [giggle, giggle]."

Tod-lar doesn't care that I have places to go, things to do, and people to see.  My agenda, as far as he's concerned, is nonexistent, which is why his agenda is far more important.  I can tell him I have things to do, but he doesn't care.  He doesn't care that I have to be at my internship for parent ed training at 9:30 a.m.  Nor does he care that Husband is downstairs pouring me a glass of wine and fixing hors d' oeuvres, so we can finally sit and discuss our days.  And why should he?  Tod-lar's "busy," discovering the cure for cancer or something of equal importance, or he's in the midst of discussing with Bah-bie the real solution to ending the Mid East conflict, or he just needs to know right now why I have "new wegs." 

What's most annoying about all this is that his agenda is important.  It may seem unimportant at 8:59 a.m. that Tod-lar's busy building a "hewacopter" with this Legos, but it's not.  It may seem especially unimportant when he wants to discuss my "new wegs" at 6:59 p.m, but even that deserves respect.  So while I'd like to say, "LOOK!  YOU NEED TO DO WHAT I SAY NOW BECAUSE I HAVE THINGS I NEED TO DO!"  I can't.  It would only send Tod-lar the message that my agenda is more important than his, which would be like Husband telling me his career is more important than mine. 

Instead, I need to treat his agenda with respect so that he, in turn, will respect mine (while keeping in mind that there will be times when my needs will have to override his -- but you get my general drift, I'm sure).  So far, giving him plenty of warning and a minute or two to finish whatever he's doing is satisfying him.  There was one time last week, however, when he refused to put down his Legos and put on his shoes, so he had to walk to the car in his socks (a choice I gave him and which he said he didn't want to do but had to take since he didn't put down those Legos -- you know the drill).  When he protested as he soiled his bleached socks in the dirt and leaves, I just shrugged my shoulders and said, "I know you hate getting your socks dirty, Honey.  You had two minutes to put them on and you didn't do it, but you can try again tomorrow."  He did and succeeded. 

Sometimes, I think this parenting gig would be a lot easier if I didn't have any place to be, or I didn't have any needs at all.  But then I wouldn't be human.  Instead, I'd just be some sort of alien creature sent to this planet with the mission "To Serve Children" -- which wouldn't be too bad, I guess, if "To Serve Children" was a cookbook. 

[And there you have my very lame attempt to incorporate one of my favorite Twilight Zone episodes into one of my very lame blog posts.]

The Summer of Ebb

This summer was nothing but ebb.  I tried to make it flow, but the Tod-lar proved to be far more tenacious than I ever thought possible. 

He was so tenacious, in fact, that at least once a day during the past six weeks, I considered either a) running away from home (with Husband, since he doesn't cause me stress), or b) driving Tod-lar to a far away location, slowing down just enough to open the door and yell "Drop and roll!" then speeding off before anyone could take down my license plate number. 

It was as if every single thing I spent the last nearly three years teaching him was wiped from his brain overnight.  He stopped being polite and made incessant demands.  He retaliated with poop.  He challenged my Enforcer status and actually ran AWAY from me when I told him it was time to leave the park.  He cried and whined instead of using his words.  He called us names.  He even spat in Husband's face at one point.  And he opposed everything -- every little fucking thing.  Even fun, happy things.

"So, Bud, your birthday's coming up.  Should we invite all your friends from school to your party?"

"NO!  I DON'T WANT A PARTY!  I DON'T WANT FRIENDS!"

Well, that's good, cause you sure ain't gonna have any with that fucking tude, Dude. 

To make things even more challenging, in addition to being Mr. Contrarian, Tod-lar was simultaneously experiencing a very heavy mommy phase.  He wouldn't let Husband do a damn thing for him.  Husband couldn't feed him his dinner, read him a nighttime story, or wipe the kid's ass without Tod-lar pitching a fit for "Maaaamaaa!"  So, while on the one hand he tried to boss me around like he was Mel Sharples reincarnated, on the other hand, he insisted I do every little fucking thing for him.  It was a push-pull like I've never before experienced. 

Then, one day last week, as I was dropping him off at school, he said to me, "I want you, Mama!"  For a second, I was a little dismayed at his demanding, whiny tone.  But I dismissed my dismay as the meaning of his words echoed in my ears, telling me what I'd long suspected was true.      

I bent down, looked into his pouting eyes and said, "I want you, too, Bud." 

He didn't know what to say at first.  Then his brow softened, and in a quiet voice, he repeated, "I want you, Mama."

I hugged him and whispered, "I want you more."

He giggled, gave me a big a kiss and arm hug, and cheerfully went to play with his friends, blowing me more kisses all the way.

Since then, he's been less oppositional and more cooperative.  He's back to saying "please" and "thank you."  And he's hugging his daddy instead of spitting at him.

For Tod-lar, you see, this summer wasn't the summer of ebb, it was the summer of major change.  In the last six weeks or so, Tod-lar has learned to do the following unassisted:

• pee and poop in the potty (well, he still needs a little help with wiping)
• remove and put on his clothes, including his socks and shoes
• wash his own hair and body
• brush his own teeth with an electric toothbrush

He's even pouring his own milk, drinking out of actual glasses instead of plastic cups, and this afternoon he made his own peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch.  For a little boy who was used to having mommy help him with all these things, this is major change.  And, while he was pretty enthusiastic to do these things himself, I think he was also wondering what it meant for mommy to stop doing them.  He loved the taste of more independence, but I suspect he also feared I wouldn't be there for him, or that I might even actually stop loving him.  And, of course, it didn't help that I'm still providing Bah-bie assistance with most everything. 

Tod-lar is moving from passive to more proactive member of our family.  He's learning to rely a little more on himself and a little less on Mama.  This is both exciting and frightening.  To me, his behavior (or misbehavior) this summer was his way of processing this profound change.  It's what he needed to do.  And my job was to manage it.  I had to keep behavioral expectations high and follow-through on consequences, while providing a little more reassurance than usual that I still loved and supported him, but without giving in to the mommy phase.  This balancing act is difficult, especially when the misbehaviors occur constantly for weeks on end, and you have another child who also needs your love and attention. 

The teenage years are going to be fun, eh?

Now, Tod-lar is worrying less about mama and is focusing more on his excitement about growing older.  Yesterday morning, when Husband, Bah-bie, and I awakened him by singing "Happy Birthday,"  he smiled and proclaimed, "I'm big now!  I'm 3!" 

Yes, you are, my little man.  Yes, you are.  And I couldn't be more proud of you.

We Got Poop

[Warning:  this is a really long post cause I gotta lotta shit to talk about.]

Since my last shitty post, Bah-bie's been unloading her innards twice, sometimes three times a day -- no finger (or unlit matches, or thermometer) up the bum required!  (However, even if I'd had to stick my finger up her bum, it would not have been a new parenting low for me since nothing beats the time Tod-lar managed to shoot poop in my face, hitting me square in my right eyeball.  For all you new parents out there, let my experience be a lesson to never, ever open a newborn's diaper until you've heard at least three loud squirts.) 

"So what worked?" you ask with bated breath.  No magic bullet.  Just a combination of things: blueberries, (which, it turns out, Bah-bie can inhale by the pintful), Raisin Bran (please remind me who suggested Raisin Bran!), prune juice, plums (she'll now allow Tod-lar to feed them to her under the plum tree, which has increased her consumption considerably since we don't have to wait for daddy to be home -- not to mention the absolute fucking cuteness), and something that I think has helped considerably and was recommended by my pediatrician, NONFAT MILK.  Given Bah-bie used to drink milk-based formula, she should be fine with dairy, but the fat in whole milk may have been making her constipated. 

The best part is that because the poop is flowing easier, she's down to whimpering from crying.  Progress for sure.  The pediatrician, though, claims that however long she's had this problem, it'll take her twice as long to get over the psychological association of poop=pain.  This means it could take her as long as ONE YEAR to fully get over this issue.  I, however, am optimistic it will be sooner (please keep her in your prayers -- they obviously worked).

But the poop saga doesn't stop here.  No siree.  Not one for being left out, Tod-lar decided it was time for him to have a poop issue as well.  Instead of constipation, however, he decided to liven things up a bit by using poop for revenge. 

When we last left our potty learning Tod-lar, he had finally decided to pee in the potty, but still insisted on pooping in a pull-up.  I was fine with this.  I know it usually takes a little more time to be poo-potty-trained than it does to be pee-potty-trained, so I was totally okay with him using a pull-up whenever he needed to poop.  For an entire month, whenever he felt the need to pinch one out, he'd take off his underwear and go to the cabinet to get a pull-up.  Then he'd stand in a corner, slightly hunched, bracing himself with his hands positioned just above his knees.  When he was done, he'd ask me to clean him up.  Clearly, the dude knows when it's about to start flowing.

But then he started having "accidents" at school.  Okay.  Accidents happen.  So we talked about it, and he agreed to get a pull-up or tell his teacher whenever he needed to poop.  But THEN, the other night, Tod-lar did the unspeakable: he pinched out a stealth poo in his underwear while eating dinner.  I saw no grimacing and heard no grunting -- NOTHING.  Then all of a sudden, I smelled it. 

"Bah-bie, did you poo poo?"

"Nooo," she said shaking her head.

"Bud, did you fart?"

"No.  I poo poo."

"You pooed?"

"Yeah."

He stood up and started climbing out of his shorts. 

"Let me see."

And there, in his Thomas the Train underwear, was a HUGE, nearly perfectly round ball of poo.  As I tried to ease the underwear off of him, the huge ball of poo slowly rolled out of his underwear onto my KITCHEN floor, landing with a thunderous PLOP!  It was like watching the opening scene of Raiders of the Lost Ark, only with a huge poo ball rather than a boulder. 

Bah-bie saw it, pointed and screamed, "YU-YEE, YU-YEE," and then began to cry. 

"Nobody move."

I grabbed a plastic grocery bag, picked up the ball of poo, tied the bag, and threw it out the back door.  Then I herded Tod-lar to the bathroom to hose him down.  After all the crying (mine) and screaming (theirs) stopped, I asked Tod-lar why he had pooped in his underwear. 

"Did you do it because I wouldn't make you chicken nuggets for dinner after I'd already made you pasta?"  Because I am not a fucking restaurant.

"No."

"Then why?"

"I wanted bread."

"So, it was because I wouldn't give you bread until you'd eaten your peas?"

"Yes."

"Uh-huh.  Well, first, if you're upset you need to talk to me about it rather than pooping in your underwear.  Say, 'I'm upset, Mama, because I want bread!'  Second, we're going to throw out all your pull-ups."

"What?!  NO!  WHY?!"

"Because you don't need them anymore.  If you're going to poop in your underwear, then you don't need pull-ups."

So we went around the house and collected every stash of pull-ups, went outside to the garbage can, and ceremoniously threw them all away.

The next morning, Tod-lar had to poop.

"You can either poop in the potty or do it in your underwear."

"I don't have to poop."

"Okay."

An hour later . . .

"I have to poop, Mama."

"Like I said, you can either do it in the potty or do it in your underwear."

He turned around with a little sigh, went to the bathroom, pulled down his pants, put the stool in front of the potty, climbed up, grunted, and that's when I heard the kids being dropped off at the pool.  It was music to my ears. 

He's been pooping in the potty ever since.

But here's the thing:  what if he'd decided to just poop in his underwear? 

No need to worry, my friends, for I had Plan B. 

When I pick him up for school, we usually go do some really fun activity, like ride the train at the park, or go to a local pool.  If he'd decided to poop in his underwear, we would have to stop doing those activities and stay home.  After all, it's too difficult to clean up poop in underwear, especially when we're out.  So, staying home would be a natural consequence of him choosing not to poop in the potty.  Believe me, people, I know that kid, and he'd get tired of that pretty quick.  It might have taken a week, but he would have gotten my point.

Don't mess with the mama bull, cause you'll get the horns.

Bwahahaha.

-----

(And a special thanks to all you delurkers out there who came out of hiding to offer advice on Bah-bie's crappy situation!  I just love delurkers!)

Praying for Poop

When I switched Bah-bie over to cow's milk at one year, it made her constipated.  Really constipated.  It was awful.  Really awful. 

I talked to her pediatrician about it. 

"Yeah, that happens.  Just give her some fruit."

"She won't eat fruit." 

"Well, it'll get better as her system matures."

Really?  When will that be?  When she's fucking 18?

My sarcasm should clue you into the fact that this constipation issue is FAR from over, and I'm about at my wit's end -- which, frankly, should not be surprising since I'm a little short on wit. 

So, here are we are.  Six months later, and my little Bah-bie is afraid to do what every person on the planet has in common and must do: poop.  In fact, she is so afraid to poop, when she feels a dump coming on, she Frankensteins her way over to me, legs stiff as a board, arms outstretched, crying, "Mama!"  It's heartbreaking.  Positively heartbreaking.  But, believe it or not, it's actually better than what she used to do, which was throw herself face-down on the ground and squeeze her butt cheeks together to stop the flow of poop.  After doing some research, I realized this could actually stretch out her colon (not to mention make her even more constipated), so whenever she hit the floor, I'd pick her up, and put her into a squatting position with her back to my chest.  This would piss her off immensely, so I'd try to make her laugh by singing a little ditty I made up, "Let it flow, let it flow, let it flow" as I carried her around the house.  I thought she'd find humor in poop support sung to the tune of a Christmas song, but her response only reconfirmed how I'm a little short on wit.

I thought about switching her to soy milk, but when I tried giving her soy formula (yes, she was on formula since I only breastfed for about 5 1/2 months; get over it) that made her constipated.  I can't even contemplate giving her rice milk since rice is part of the BRAT diet.  So, instead, I limit her milk intake and give her prune juice.  I feed her bran muffins, peas, spinach, even beans (presoaked to limit the gassiness).  Recently, we even got her to eat plums from our tree.  Of course, she has to be lying in Daddy's lap as he feeds them to her underneath the actual plum tree (and to think I gave away all those "Diva" onesies because I didn't want to promote such behavior), but at least she's eating them.  All that, coupled with the laxatives she gets before bed has helped.  Why, just the other day she had such an explosive poop, I had to stick her in the tub and hose her down, clothes and all.

So, you see, I thought we were making progress.  I thought we were only working on helping Bah-bie to associate pooping with relief instead of associating it with pushing a watermelon out of her butt.  But that last explosive poo she had?  The one where Tod-lar stood by watching and mini-barfing as I hosed her down?  That was three days ago, and she hasn't pooped since.  In fact, she hasn't even shown any signs of trying (or not trying, as the case may be) to poop. 

A doctor friend of mine suggested I do what he does with his infant daughter when she's constipated: stick his finger up her butt. 

I think, instead, I'll just pray for poop.  Or maybe I'll bring her to the pediatrician's office so SHE can stick her finger up her butt. 

Until then, "Please, God, let it flow, let it flow, let it flow . . . "

Whatchamacallit

Last night while giving Bah-bie her bath, she poked at her privates and said, "This?" 

"Yes, Honey, that's your, your . . . um, your . . . look!  Bubbles!"

Pathetic, I know.

And to think it was just yesterday when I replied to Nichole's comment about how it's better that I'm teaching Tod-lar the word "penis" instead of "wee wee" or something, with a "Oh, yes!  And when my neighbor was outraged because I had taught him that word, well, huh, I mean, some people!"

Yeah, whatever, Loser (me, not Nichole).

Thus, it appears I have a problem with the word "vagina," whereas I don't have a problem with the word "penis."  I wonder what Freud would think of this. 

Let us, however, for the moment forget about Sigmund because I don't think my issue with that word has anything to do with penis envy or my mother.  Frankly, I think it's really just a matter of phonics.

"Vagina," as you know, has three syllables, whereas "penis" only has two.  And, if you say "penis" fast enough, it really only sounds like one.  Hear for yourself: say "penis" out loud really fast. 

Didn't that sound like only one syllable?

Now say the word "vagina" out loud.  "VA-GI-NA."

It's a very looonnnng word, isn't it?  And it doesn't really roll off the tongue, now, does it?  "Penis," however, does roll off the tongue.

(Now stop laughing, or being disgusted, or thinking I'm a moron, and focus.)

So my question is this: why does a word labeling the most intimate part of a woman's body have to linger in the air for such a long period of time?  I mean, every time I hear the word "vagina" I feel as if someone took a picture of it and hung it up on the wall so everyone can stare at it.  But with "penis," it's so short (the word, I mean), all you get is a less than momentary snapshot in your mind, and POOF!  The image is gone. 

But here's the thing I realized after last night's bath: I don't have to teach Bah-bie about her vagina just yet.  See, she wasn't poking at her vagina, she was poking at her vulva. 

Duh.

And "vulva?" I can deal with "vulva."  It's only two syllables and if you say it really fast -- well, it still sounds like two syllables, but it's not nearly as long as "vagina." 

So I guess what I really want to know is: whose fucking bright idea was it to turn the word "vagina" into a general term for vulva when, in fact, the vaginal opening is actually only part of the vulva?  Huh?

I'll tell you who: someone who clearly doesn't have any idea where the clitoris is.