21 August 2009

Lines may have been crossed

Last night I had one of those exchanges with Sacha that, taken out of context, was wildly inappropriate.

At bedtime, I was snuggling in Gabriel's bed with my boys. Gabriel gets right down to business when it's time to go to sleep, but Sacha, the energizer baby, rarely stops moving. It is also very exciting for him to lie in the bed, because he still sleeps in jail a crib. He bounced about, and generally made this tender moment less than serene. After a few minutes of reflexive self-defense on my part to avoid his jabs, he settled into something vaguely resembling stillness.

His comfy spot: resting between my legs. He was still, I was not getting kicked, so I settled for this. Yet after after a minute or so, he wanted to switch positions, and asked me, ever so politely, “Mama, can you please open your legs?” He then proceeded to tunnel his way up my skirt, nestling his head somewhere between my pubic crest and tubercles, aka, my vajango.


Internally, I squirmed. It was, after all, a one way trip. Externally, I laughed.

I guess this was no worse than the time last winter, when Sacha had a nasty diaper rash, and my pediatrician suggested using a hair dryer after bathing and diapering until it cleared up. We don't own a hair dryer, and even if I did, whipping it out every time I changed a diaper seemed impractical. So instead, I just let him run around naked for a few minutes to air out, or if we were in a hurry, I would gently blow on his bottom.

He really liked this. Slightly too much for a mother's comfort. So much, that for a time after the rash cleared up, whenever I would change him, he would ask, “Mama, can you blow me?”

And so, I did.

Much giggling ensued, followed by a second request: “Mama, can you blow me AGAIN?”

Out of the mouths of babes!

I was grateful on a few fronts. First, it was winter, so my neighbors could not hear these exchanges wafting through open windows. Second, that my neighbors also have boys, and most likely would have thought nothing of it. Third, that Sacha is three, so although it sounds so wrong, it's nothing but innocent.

But if this sort of thing were still to be happening in a few years time, not only would I run screaming to a therapist, but I'm afraid I would also have to turn in my parenting license.

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