Dear SuperMom..of a Special Need’s Child

Dear SuperMom (of a special needs child),

Today, I think of you.

I see you trying to calm him down in the middle of the rows of baskets of tomatoes in the open and muddy marketplace.

Your shoulders, slumped a bit forward from the weight of your burden as one hand reaches out to bring familiar balance to his core.

I see you at the Mall, trying to guide her along the rows of wares on display while pointing at some (fascinating) objects in the not-so-far aisle.

Your dedication and love shines forth through your tired eyes.

I see the fatigue.

And trying.

To make sense of it all while discountenancing the sneaky stares.

The veiled pity, glances, unsolicited and sometimes patronizing counsels and queries from the environment.

I see how you try to maintain a balance between caring for your child and having a close-to-normal-life. And while at it, trying to not buckle under the intense pressure of having to do all of these in an environment that far from makes such tasks easy.

I know it seems preposterous to say this, but I totally get how you feel. In more ways than one.

Look away from the fact that all the experiences I have under my belt were obtained by running after little ones whose needs do not go beyond some joyful and painful shrieks, settling squabbles, handling unannounced cuddles, deciding choice of snacks and the more-than-occasional accidental weeweeing on the bed.

Yes, these definitely pale miserably into insignificance, when placed side by side with the tiniest fraction of what is on your plate right now in your job as a parent of a child born with special needs.

But you know what?

All other things may not fit into the big puzzle life is right now but I do certainly wish to tenderly smoothen the lines on your face and to tell you that I understand what you are going through. To a certain degree, that is.

I am but a ‘clueless stranger’ who would never know how hard the shoe pinches but don’t flinch just yet, please.

Maybe I would never ever fully understand your special kind of struggles.

Or your joys at the (often-taken-for-granted-by-the-rest-of-the-Universe) milestones attained by your little one(s).

Or your shock and disappointment at the sly hand dealt by fate.

Or your resignation and acceptance of not having enough powers to wish this away.

Or your acute pain, seeing your precious one in pain, this awful pain that promises to not go away anytime soon.

Or your distress at how the environment un-accepts your precious one while making a show of pitiable acceptance.

How I long to tell you that it is okay and that it is going to end well.

But if I do not get to say those words or hold your hands today, my heart seeks yours across this virtual divide.

My heart hears the unformed words in your heart.

Your heart, golden and magnificent, pulsating with dedication, resilience and love as only angels could muster and master. This angel that had been chosen to care for this treasured one.

And as another Mother’s day looms, revel in the fact that you are loved and appreciated greatly, no less by strangers.

Even if these little ones are unable to fully verbalize their feelings as much as you’d have wanted,

Your sacrifices are not unacknowledged, by the Universe and your cape, that supercape – billowing hard and strong is a testament to your awesomeness.


Happy mothers day, SuperMom.

From another mom.

3 Virginity Myths We Should Dispel

As sensitive as this topic is, both in the secular and religious circles, there are 3 virginity myths swimming in the ocean of opinions out there which we would do well to dispel here and now.

I know I am not in any position to tell anyone what to believe and propagate or not but some of these beliefs have a way of clouding our sense of judgement.

Virginity myth, dispel today

Virginity myth 1: Girls should preserve their virginity until marriage.


I am 101% for this and that is not unexpected for somebody who walked this particular talk and was fortunate enough to be unbelievably equally yoked in that regard. (Yeah, indulge me while I blow this rusty and traditional trumpet a little)

Now permit me to insert 1 or 2 tales by moonlight here.

Sometimes in the very old *Yoruba past, history  has it that  new brides were put through an all important test to determine whether the ‘seals’ on their ‘private goods’ have been tampered with.

Okay, I mean this test is to find out whether the bride had slept with a man before.

That test was usually carried out on the marriage night.

The specimen employed in determining the final verdict was reportedly a clean, white cloth / bed-sheet which was always expected to be crimson with the stamp of chastity.

With drums rolling in the moonlight, the new couple were usually ushered into the laboratory a la bedroom with friends and families cheering them on .

Anyone found with an all-clean sheet was subjected to ridicule, humiliated, ostracized and the marriage sometimes annulled.

Shame of all shames!

Maybe there were no hymen-tearing sports / activities back in those days.

Also, in the old **Igbo past, newly wedded brides were put to a similar test. The result of which was usually determined by the freshness and fullness of kegs of palm-wine which the family of the groom were compelled to bring as gifts in appreciation for being gifted a good wife or otherwise.

Woe betide the bride whose husband’s family brings half-empty gourds of palm wine!

For emphasis, only the brides were tested, the grooms could apparently do no wrong. And if they did any wrong, they were men so it did not matter. This is however not about the unfairness and inequality that still persists today.

Even now, I run the picture through my head and imagine the physical, emotional and psychological burdens on new brides back then.

These days, in a bid to outdo ourselves, we still emphasize and beat a sense of moral and spiritual rightness ONLY in our girls.

We continue to teach ONLY our girls to aspire to coming out of the conjugal laboratory with the crimson colored sheet on the wedding night, a worthy badge of honor.

Mind you, both bride and groom are almost always a product of the same society that chooses to raise them differently.

This may seem ludicrous, considering that it is a patriarchal society we live in, but by the virtue of our selective teachings, won’t we end up shooting ourselves in the foot with our own rusty gun by allowing ‘our’ half-tutored male kids mentally roam unfettered while exposing our well-tutored girls to the risk of being un-virgined?

For example, a family with an all-boys’ brood that fails to instill a sense of moral and spiritual rightness in their male offsprings leave the ‘tutored’ female at risk of being stampeded.

I strongly believe that if virginity is to be upheld, boys and girls must be taught to aspire to it and abstain from pre-marital sex. 

Virginity Myth 2: Girls who have already lost their virginity are not marry-able and are promiscuous.

As much as I belong to the ‘no premarital sex camp’, the myth up there is an ignorant assumption in some equally ignorant quarters and this has led some young (‘experienced’) men to make searching for virgin brides their life mission such that some disvirgined-virgin-aspirees would give anything to repair their hymens.

Or how else would one explain the incursion of ‘super-natural’ products reputed to be able to restore long-lost virginities in today’s market?!

No kidding.

Virginity myth

Source: Google

Source: AliExpress







There is a lot of virginity frauds going on so that prospective grooms would find a seemingly intact hymen which is perceived to be a pointer to holy / good-girlism and an indicator of a happily ever after life.

Height of absurdity pointing at misplaced priorities.

Virginity Myth 3: Virgins are not good in bed / Non-virgins know all the rules in the bed-game etcetera etcetera

This might be one myth too many but do stay with me awhile, let me squeeze in one more story here.

I learned to draw after I got married and I also picked up writing shortly after and even though I may not write or draw so well now but those ‘talents’ were apparently innate, lying un-utilized until they were stirred up.

See, it is the same thing with sex.

Writing or drawing is an art which can be learned with the right dosage of knowledge mixed with passion and patience.

The fact that somebody  was once a non-writer / artist does not imply s/he can never be a good artist / writer.

Same as there are hundreds of somebodies s working and walking around who learned to write or draw early in life but are yet to attain enough exposure, perfection, excellence, etc.

We all need to start from a virgin point (and that is no virginity myth). Same as Chuwechuwe, Emecheta, Achebe, etc

Whatever is yet to be learned can be learned at the appropriate time, the tiger(ess) can be unleashed and whatever was learned can be unlearned.

To generalize on account of one non-virgin who turned promiscuous or a virgin who became an inadequate lover smirks of ignorance.

Girl and boys alike should be taught right, prayed for and allowed to choose the right path…hopefully.

The truth:

Marriage is indeed honorable and the bed un-defiled.


Every party is responsible for upholding the bed’s sanctity, every child must therefore be taught the values of remaining chaste until marriage.


Do as I Say, Not As I do

Do as I say
Do as I say, not as I do.

I got to ‘know’ this phrase a long time ago and it was/is still used to depict hypocrisy at any level.

More often than not, what is good for the goose is hardly ever good for the gander.

Like the Leader who advocates for local content when ‘they’ themselves resort to ‘foreign’ content even to treat ‘common’ infections.

But I do not intend to write about any Leader or Country’s problems right now.

So we were stopped by a traffic light last week on our way home and as we waited on our own lane, there was ‘this’ Van on the right lane (we were on the left).

The driver was already hemmed in on both sides and I still do not know what got into him but he decided to wiggle out of his lane all of a sudden, by ‘reversing’ his van.

Continue reading →

Letter to My Son (1)


Dear Son,

It has been such a pleasure to daily watch you grow and mature (with all the growing going on).

Today is not your birthday but I feel very pressed to pen this short note to you, hoping you would read it one day…if not today, that is.

You are my first child, a beautiful but squirmish seal on my union with your father and I remember how much I longed and prayed for your coming.

You know what?

Today, I laugh at my silly younger newly-married self some nine years ago.

Fretting and worrying with each unmissed period, just 2 months after tying the knot with your father – a wonderful being who couldn’t care less as he was in the middle of preparing for an examination and would rather put off having children for some few years.

Not me. Not then. Not now if I have to do it over again.

Well, I still don’t blame myself. Longing for you was not as much a validation of my existence as it was for the need to save myself from death. Death from boredom…and loneliness in the immediate aftermath of the wedding, with hubby devoting all to work and academics.

I didn’t see all of those coming…or maybe I deluded myself into thinking it would be a breeze.

I blame him less today, if at all. Don’t tell him now, will you?

Then, along you came, announced on a Saturday morning by those two faint pinkish lines on the beautiful Predicte strip I got from the Pharmacy just down the street. I still remember floating on air as I rushed to shake your poor father awake from a much-needed rest.

Son, whatever you do, I want you to always remember that worry never changes anything about the present and anxiety never changes anything about the future.

So cliche. I know.

But humor me now, will you?

The truth is: Que sara sara – what will be will be.

Learn to never sweat the seemingly small stuffs, things will always fall into place.

Fast forward to another Saturday, this past Saturday.

Your not-so-tiny voice brought me out of my reverie as I put the freshly gutted and cleaned Tilapia fishes in the Ziploc to be stored away in the freezer, until the chef in me awakens again in the not too distant future.

”Thank God I am not a girl”, you said.

I was not even aware you had ‘sneaked’ up behind me as you are wont to do, watching my every move.

One day, I hope we will laugh together (over a cup of tea or garri ijebu) about your love for my kitchen and your sweet impatience to start using the gas cooker to make meal for the entire family.

Ours is a conventional African home and I still marvel at how much you are taking in from me on domestic issues considering the fact you always say (to our amusement) that the only meals daddy knows how to prepare are bread and tea and eba (of course)!

”Why did you say that?”, I asked.

”Because I won’t have to be touching fishes”, you responded.

Coming from someone who wanted to get me out of the kitchen (some days ago) to rest so he could make dinner for me, I knew you just did not fully understand yet.

I am not even afraid.

That you would become some strange person who would think or believe that a woman’s place is only in the kitchen, living room or bedroom!

Not the tiniest of doubt that you would grow up into anything less than a fine young man.

But my sensors still went up all the same.

See, in Africa today, some (strange) men still see women -their wives as lesser creatures.

Fit to be seen, not heard.

At least not when Manchester United or Chelsea or any of the other clubs that contribute zilch to our standard of living are on the screen.

You know I love Arsenal even though I do not agree with Arsene Wenger’s ways. But we are not talking about football now, are we?

We are talking about the poor women who have been conscripted to nothing short of slaves by those strange men!

But you, have shown to have more substance in your tiny veins and it is with great satisfaction masked under a little smirk that I constantly watch the beautifully caring little man you are being transformed into.

Not a chance of growing up into ‘something strange’.

I see how you no longer wait for proddings or reminders before sweeping the floor whenever you messed it up.

You wash your own plates even though I cringe at the amount of soap and water wasted, each time.

And I always have to stop myself from yelling in order not to discourage you.

You always want to wash your own clothes even though the Washing machine is still functioning.

And you have found a way of conscripting your little brother into this army of domesticated little soldiers.

I am going to remember to tease you about this though I find it less amusing right now and always only just stop myself from sending you out of the kitchen and bathroom, every time.

Back to the ‘fishy’ issue at hand.

You see, touching fishes cannot be a chore for girls only.

Scratch that.

It is not the place of girls only to touch or clean fishes but for every human who likes to eat (fishes).

Boys, girls, men, women!

Same goes for every other thing in life.

Be sure to always have it at the back of your mind that no particular gender is ‘condemned’ to a life behind the cinders or washtubs.

None is superior to the other.

In marriage, the man is the head while the woman is the neck – to support him.

Going by the good book, we are all wonderfully and fearfully created in God’s image and likeness even though Eve was taken from Adam’s side.

Note: his side, not his toes…not his head either.

Let me tell you a little about my sweet mother, your grandma whom you are forever asking about.

She raised seven children, 3 boys and 4 girls -successfully.

By Africa’s standards, all your uncles are girls in boys’ skins.

Just because.

They all could / can get their hands dirty every time the need arises. And that is a lot more times than I can remember, I tell you.

They all cook and clean so well, even better than we girls.

Till date, I do not know how to pound yam which is the most loved meal where I come from -Ekiti.

But all the men do it so well, even now.

And they all can use the ‘olo ata’ / grinding stone very well.

Because we were all brought up to be responsible, regardless of  gender or what is underneath our underwears.

No role-separations. No supremacy where chores are concerned.

This is the only way I know how to raise children.

And that is why you could / would not stay in the living room or your room playing while I work in the kitchen.

Trust me, when your fingers are strong enough to handle fishes you will definitely handle them.

In the last couple of days, the boys versus girls argument have been coming up too frequently in the house which understandably is a spill-over from the unfinished bouts of arguments in school.

Boys versus girls.

Girls versus girls.

Girls are better.

Boys are better.

Girls are annoying.

Ballet is for girls only.

I wish we do not have to deal with this, but it is here and we have to deal with it.

It is what it is.

I understand this is a stage that comes with heightened awareness.

Girls plait their hair while boys cut theirs.

Girls have vaginas while boys have penises.

Remember the day  I took you to the salon for haircuts and D2 prompted me to barb mine.

And I did. (I must confess I had been tinkering with the idea but just needed a little push)

That did not make me less of a girl. Or less of a woman, if you wish.

My breasts and vagina did not simply disappear on account of my hair or lack of.

See, I am still me. Unique in my own annoying way, just like you.

What I look like on the outside is merely the package I come wrapped in like your last Christmas present and that does not affect the contents (on the inside of me).

I need you to always remember that we are all unique in our own quirky ways -boys and girls are (unique) individuals, first.

And to answer two of your questions again:

No, girls are not better than boys and boys are not better than girls.

No, girls do not talk too much. At least not more than boys.

To confuse you a little bit more, we all talk too much or too little.

Your ability to play chess so well is not ingrained in your gender. It is not because you are a boy but it comes from your love for chess and how much effort you are putting into it, aided by your teachers.

Likewise, our ability to talk or annoy one another is not embedded in our gender assignments.

See, I am a girl who would rather write than talk. Talking wears me out, you know.

Yet, I have (male) friends who just do not know how or when to stop talking whenever seemingly-willing audiences are within earshot.

You, as well as D2 could talk without pausing for hours non-stop even when all I want to do is to read my book or watch Tinsel in peace.

Would it then be fine to conclude that every (little) boy talks too much (more than girls)?


Never run the risk of generalization on account of your experience with just one Being out of the range of a Group or Specie.

That is what Chinamanda calls the ‘single story’.

I hope you never forget these, my son.

With love from mum. we all need them!


Image: Pixabay

I live in a culture where premium is placed on actions and signs rather than words. And in a funny way too.

For instance, an average Nigerian child knows very well to leave the living room even in the middle of a much-loved program whenever guests come visiting, without the parent(s) uttering a word. Just one look from the parent(s) is all it takes. Sometimes, it is a raised eyebrow slanted in the child’s direction.

Do not ask me how they do this. It’s in the DNA.

In the same vein, an average Nigerian child knows never to say yes to an extra plate of food or drink at a party even if food and drinks flow like a river, his / her tummy rumbles louder than a volcano on the verge of erupting. Not even when the host is more than gracious to force it on the child. Just one look is all it takes.

I made that mistake once in my growing-up lifetime at a birthday party on a Sunday noon, I enjoyed every spoonful of the yummy extra plate of jollof rice but let’s just say my ears still smart, my knees still hurt.

Because…how could you go out there and behave like you’ve never seen / eaten rice before in your house and you started acting like elebiomoojuorolari?

(For my non-Nigerian readers: omoojuorolari literaly means a child who has never seen wealth before!)

Don’t laugh.

An average Nigerian child in years gone by would never hear the word ‘I love you’ from his / her parents in their lifetime but would instead receive gifts / choice stuffs on birthdays, that is if s/he is lucky to be in an environment where money is not a worry.

We are currently succeeding in changing the unwritten rules and rewriting the code thereby putting a gradual end to the culture of ’emotional’ silence, hence the emphasis on ‘in years gone by’.

This morning, we were descending the stairs when my 5-going-on-6yr old little man stopped me in my tracks with a simple enough question:

Him: Mummy, am I still your baby?

Me: Yes, you will always be my baby, sweetheart.

And I love you too.

Him: And also ‘Dapo?

Me: Yes, of course. Both of you will always be my babies.

Him: Have you forgiven me?

Me: For messing up my shoes? (A nod from him)..Yes I have. You said sorry and I accepted, it’s okay dear.

And then I hugged him tightly. Briefly, savoring our 2secs intimate moment in that quiet stairway.

Much earlier in the morning around 6am-ish…

I had these once-upon-a-beautiful polka dot wedge that I had not stepped into in 3+ years and I refused to throw them out.

Now, I had only worn these pair twice since I got them and those two times, they kept slipping off my feet as much as I tried to keep them on gracefully. I would end up limiting the steps I take around the workplace those two ocassions just to prevent any form of embarrassment.

They were my size, still are but they just wouldn’t stay on. Yet, I refused to throw them out or give them away.

Just because…I hope to still rock them gracefully someday…and okay, I hoard.

So this morning just like I’d done a couple of times in the past, I brought them out to see if they would still fit. Dusted them and then…horror of the horrors..a gaping opening on each!

Whenever I see any defect anywhere, my handy-manny mummy bears her fangs tools! This was not an exception so, naturally I fixed and cleaned them, rested them gingerly by the wall to dry and cool off, and out comes my little sleepy-head to knock them off and slightly..just slightly mess things up on his way to wee.

So, you see why he had to ask for forgiveness. He said sorry immediately and I okayed it while bustling to make up for the time wasted taken to fix the shoes.

But I digress.

More often than not, children who grow in a very (emotionally) ‘non-assuring’, ‘non-vocal’ environment become equally (emotionally) ‘non-assuring’ and ‘non-vocal’ adults.

Apples rarely fall far from the tree.

In a way, we are all products of the environment we grow up in. Our environment shapen and sharpen us into the adults we are becoming.

A typical Nigerian man that finds it difficult to say ‘I love you’ might just be overly influenced by the world he grew up in. I am in danger of running foul of generalization here but the truth is Parents on this side of the globe rarely vocalize their love for their off-springs. Till date, I had never heard my father say those 3 words to me or any of the other children in all of my 36 years on earth.

Now, that does not imply that he did/does not love his children but the words are simply alien to voice out and he’d rather we experience his love in other ways. Maybe by discharging his obligations…which are just that – obligations.

However, I am a firm believer in the fact that we cannot choose our environments, neither can we influence where we are planted or what we receive as a matter of that planting BUT we can well choose our responses to every situation -good or unsavory.

That is why I would always end every note to my mom with ‘I love you’. I am sad I did not awaken sooner but I really am glad I made her last few years on earth count in that regard.

Breaking the culture of silence regarding emotions is highly imperative if one of our goals is to raise happy and emotionally stable little individuals.

And that is why I cannot afford not to show my children love – in words and deeds.

I choose to say ‘I love you’ to those little men every day even in the midst of the ever constant maddening rush which characterizes our daily lives.

And I choose to hug them ever so tightly every opportunity I get just to reassure them that mama still got them in her hold / heart.

And that is partly why I still prompt my husband every opportunity to shed those skins of cultural silence even as I ask…do you still love me?
Just like my baby I still your baby?

We all can do with some beautiful reassurances every now and then, they really do make the sun shine brighter.


Everyday Should Be Mothers Day

Mothers Day

D2: Happy Mothers’ Day, Mummy!

Hubby: How many times are you going to celebrate mothers’ day in this house?

D2: But today is still mothers’ day! (stated defiantly)

Have I previously mentioned the fact that I love men who stand (adamantly firm) by what they believe?

Time was 6.05am.

Settings was my kitchen.

May I also quickly chip in that this day was 6 days after ‘Mothers’ Day’ was widely celebrated?

Yes, my groggy (with sleep) lil man remembered anew to wish me a happy mothers day a couple of days after the main ‘event’. He’s learning well, don’t you think?

Now let me paint a wordy picture of how the day went for yours truly.

Being a Sunday, the only thing I looked forward to was getting into the same old excitingly boring rituals of mommyhood a la getting up a bit later than work-days, cleaning up yesterday’s dishes (yes, I am that kind of mom..), making breakfast before the whole brood awakened, getting myself and them into some decent garbs to go boogy down & up in church.

But then, getting ‘papped’ by D1 as I got off the stairs had to find a way into the scheme of things.

Just because mothers are celebrities sans the glitz and glitters of red carpets.

Moreso, it is the most natural thing in the world to have camera phone flashes go off severally on a Sunday morning. And I just had to find a way of getting one of the several tens of pictures taken by these little ones onto this site. For your viewing (dis)pleasure.

Pardon me, pretty pleaseeeee.

You see, mothers are given too little much credit for doing so much. Yes? No?

Mothers are unsung heroines, grossly under-celebrated warriors with no sophisticated firearms in their arsenals…mentors, birthing and shaping several generations of future ‘movers and shakers’, all accomplished (successfully) without training manuals.

We really do a whole lot to keep the wheels rolling…even if we have to sometimes say so ourselves…(mind you, forgetting too often to check the Radiator’s water level or oil level or gas level is not even strong enough a blow to dent our shiny weary armor)…

…that it may not be too much to expect to get to celebrate us, everyday. Impossible, you mutter? Maybe a couple of days in a year dedicated to celebrating our ‘heroic feats’…okay, I mean to say just one day off mommy duties, even on a special day such as ‘Mothers day’…the ONE day set aside to celebrate mothers.

I mean, one full day where we get to put our feet up and get fawned over, for a change. (If you still await that day, you’re not alone).

That is the reality for some pretty lucky moms but for other equally pretty lucky moms, the day passes(ed) so swiftly, like every other day. Doing the same boring exciting chores, managing to keep positive vibes running to boil some rice, prepare some smoked chicken and watch some little ones yell and run around in pants as this mom mentally picks out her work outfits for the week. Hardly third world problems, I agree.

In the chores, running around and yelling are embedded the all kinds of ‘cal’ and ‘nal’ joy (physical, mental, emotional, etc). Joy at nourishing those little ones and seeing them flourish through the years.

Joy at the beautiful moments of being loved and unloved.

Joy at the ugly times..that is if packing slimy poo from a freshly-mopped-tiled-floor counts as one (sorry if I gross you out…it was a recent reality of some mother *stares at feet*)..

..and more joy at some more beautiful moments such as hearing some groggy wishes of a happy mothers day, 6.05am, 6 mornings after the actual mothers day.

Well, here is to everyday of groggily serene or top-of-the-lungs celebrations of who we are and all we stand for.

Here is to more decades of boring chores spiced with headache-inducing shrieks of pure delight at the little pleasures only a mother can give.

Here is to all the amazing moms of biological, spiritual or adoptive bambinos out there who are trudging the path of love.

Here is to all the strong moms-in-waitings longing to hear some little ones groggily say..happy mothers day, even if it comes 6 days or 16 days after the actual celebration.

Because everyday should be mothers day, I choose to celebrate your strength, today.

And always.




Let’s Talk Privates

Privates. Sex education. Anatomy.


These words have been echoing through my mind since 5.30ish am this morning and it is still reverberating in my head as I type this.

Regardless of how much I try to get it right, I must confess that I am just a clueless mother trying to make her way safely through the parenting maze; this is one of those moments where I feel I should have taken another turn through the hazy maze.

I am hinting at sex education and the appropriate time to discuss the human anatomy (in depth) with young children. I am not even talking about sex education yet even though experts advocates initiating the talk in early childhood.

When did you start talking to your child(ren) about sex? or when are you planning to start the talk?

Hardly would a day go by where there is not at least 5 reports (from both sides) about somebody accidentally touching the other’s privates while playing hard and hardy would a day go by without mummy asking some probing after-school-questions about anybody touching anybody’s privates (whether by accident or not) in school.

So the ‘privates’ talk is well known and loved in my house and we pretty much live by this simple rule:

Thou shall not allow anybody touch your privates, except your parents.

And if anybody touches your privates (by accident or not), be sure to let them know that it is not right and later tell mum and dad about it.

So, this morning just as were getting dressed, the discussion somehow shifted to talks about their ‘privates’ (again) when my 5yr old chipped in,

”mummy has three privates, is it not true..mummy?”

”Three privates?”

And he proceeded to gesticulate and pointed at the three for emphasis.

”Your breasts, your penis and your buttocks”


I have a penis now? Never knew about that before now.

And it got me thinking…about how I completely forgot about the differences between a penis and vagina simply because I am the only female person that has a different anatomy in the house.

pssst…we don’t throw that ‘v’ word around here.

But not anymore. I think this is the moment of education, to teach these lil men that women do not have penises but vulva / vagina.

If we are not shy to talk about penises, then we should be (decently) outspoken about vulva and vaginas.

A part of my brain is telling me I should have done this earlier and build the foundation for educating them about sex.

But today is a good day to start.