As is common for children around this age, my three-year-old son has begun to explore the topic of body parts. The other day, he innocently inquired, “Where’s your penis button?” mixing up the anatomical terms in his curiosity.
“Mommies don’t have penises,” I explained gently. “Mommies are girls, and boys have penises.” My partner and I have always fostered an atmosphere of openness regarding our bodies in front of our son. We believe there is no shame in understanding our physical selves, despite not being as active as we once were before his arrival. Our goal is for him to see his body as natural, capable, strong, and healthy.
We discuss privacy with him while I change into my pajamas comfortably in front of him. Recently, at dinner, he excitedly revealed his own anatomy, saying, “Mommy! Look at this!” when he pulled his penis out to show me a trick with the opening of his underwear. I explained that while it’s okay to explore his body, it should be done privately, and not at the dinner table. As he navigates the process of potty training, he’s learning to appreciate privacy in the bathroom, though he often calls for assistance as soon as he needs help with clothing or hygiene.
As we delve into discussions about what is appropriate in public versus at home, I remain unbothered by changing into my swimsuit in front of my son. However, a recent conversation took a different turn when he pointed to my chest and asked, “What’re those, mama?” This question, while resembling the earlier one about my “penis button,” carried a heavier emotional weight.
The truth is, my breasts are no longer what they once were, having undergone reconstruction following a bilateral mastectomy. Scars mark my chest, and the nipples that remain are merely tattoos mimicking the original. While my new breasts do not sag or jiggle, they are cool to the touch and lack much sensation due to nerve damage. Honestly, they don’t resemble traditional breasts.
Above my reconstructed breasts is a power port, a device the size of a nickel that sits just under my skin. This port allows for the administration of chemotherapy infusions, which I receive every third week, directly into my jugular vein. When my son asked what it was, comparing it to his own nipples, I had to clarify. “No, honey. This isn’t a nipple; this is where I get my medicine,” I said.
Surprisingly, he responded with a simple “I know,” which tightened my throat with emotion. I briefly explained that those are my breasts and clarified that my port is not a nipple. Yet, I recognize that eventually, I will need to share more with him — about my Stage 4 breast cancer diagnosis when he was just five months old, about the swift weaning from nursing to start chemotherapy, and the ongoing battle with the disease that has recurred multiple times. I know I will have to explain my fears and the reality that there is currently no cure.
But for now, I keep it simple. I tell him he has a penis and a belly button, while I have one but not the other. His eyes widen when I reveal that his belly button is the spot where he was connected to me while in my womb. Some days, I admit, I feel tired and need a nap, just like him, allowing us to cuddle on the couch and enjoy extra shows together.
At this moment, I strive to set aside my worries about the future discussions we will have surrounding our bodies and the complexities they encompass.
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Summary:
In navigating the delicate discussions about bodies and health with young children, it’s important to maintain openness while recognizing the complexities of personal experiences. This article reflects on the author’s journey through body image and health challenges as she addresses her son’s innocent questions, all while preparing for more in-depth conversations in the future.