A Peepee.
Mood:  happy
That's what, these days, I hear out of Matt for the entire duration of his bath. And his diaper changes. He grins as widely as I've ever seen him grin (and in Matt's case, that is really saying something, because he is the king of wide grins), grabs his unit, and coos a peepee. Then he pulls on it, and grins some more, and says a peepee some more. It's quite clear the guy is in love.

What is it with men and their units? Baby boys have frequently been observed, via ultrasound, clutching their packages even in utero. Women can't really relate. We're proprietary about our purses, and to a lesser extent about our own various mammary and genital bits, but men and their peepees? They've got something really special.

Sam's not immune, either. Throughout most of his bath this evening, although unlike Matt he wasn't actively crooning to his peepee, he sat there, turning it upward and staring at it in a contemplative, appraising sort of way. I don't know what he was thinking. I asked him "Sam, is your peepee okay?" and he nodded absently and continued to examine his equipment. "Sam, what are you thinking about?" I tried, wondering if he was noticing that his peepee looks different from the other kids' at day care (the other boys are circumcised, he is not, and they do witness each other's diaper changes). No response. More peepee staring. I suppose he was just pondering the mysteries of the penis.

It's interesting raising little males; I've never had to care for a penis before. Okay, well, not in a non-romantic fashion, anyway. I don't even want to get started on the conversations we had in ultimately deciding not to circumcise them (my husband the lawyer: I feel I lack standing to make decisions about another guy's dick.) The funny part is, I haven't thought this much about peepees since I was, oh, thirteen or so. This must be what they mean when they say that having children keeps you young.