Updated: January 27, 2023
Originally Published: July 18, 2010
As is common with children at this age, my three-year-old son has begun to inquire about human anatomy. Recently, he asked me, “Where’s your belly button?” mixing up the terms in the way only a child can.
“Mommies don’t have penises,” I explained gently. “Mommies are girls, and boys have penises.”
My partner and I have always approached body awareness with openness, believing there’s nothing shameful about our physical selves — even if we don’t exercise as regularly as we did before he came along. We want him to appreciate his body as natural, capable, strong, and healthy.
We discuss privacy with him while I change into my pajamas without hesitation in front of him. When he recently revealed his penis at the dinner table, thrilled to show me his “cool hole” in his underwear, I calmly told him that while it’s okay to explore his body in private, it’s not appropriate to do so at the dinner table. As he’s learned to use the potty, he’s also grasped the idea of wanting privacy while he attends to his needs — though he often calls me in to help him get dressed or wipe after using the toilet.
We navigate the discussions about what’s suitable in public versus at home, and I feel comfortable changing into my swimsuit in front of my three-year-old. Or at least, I used to feel that way.
Recently, he pointed to my chest and asked, “What are those, Mama?” This question felt more complicated than his previous inquiries.
If I’m honest, my breasts are different now. Following my bilateral mastectomy, they’ve been reconstructed and bear scars that tell a story of survival. My nipples are actually tattoos designed to mimic the real thing. While they might not sag, they are cool to the touch and lack sensation due to nerve damage.
Just above my new breasts, there’s a power port embedded under my skin, roughly the size of a nickel. This device allows my nurses to administer chemotherapy directly into my jugular vein every third week.
“What’s that?” he asked, pointing at his own chest in comparison, a puzzled look on his face.
“No, sweetheart. This isn’t a nipple. This is where I receive my medicine.”
“I know,” he replied, catching me off guard. A wave of emotion surged through me.
I briefly explained that they were my breasts, clarifying that the port isn’t a nipple, yet I understand that one day I’ll need to provide him with more information. I’ll have to share how I was diagnosed with Stage 4 breast cancer when he was just five months old, how I had to wean him abruptly to begin chemotherapy, and the reality of my ongoing treatment. One day, he’ll need to know that I face this challenge with fear, as there’s no cure for what I have.
But that day is not today. For now, I tell him he has a penis and a belly button, while I have one but not the other. I marvel at his belly button, explaining that it’s where he was connected to me when he was in my womb. I also admit that some days I feel tired and would love to nap (just like him), so we can cuddle on the couch and enjoy extra shows.
In this moment, I’m focusing on the simplicity of our conversations, trying not to dwell on the complicated discussions that lie ahead about our bodies and the wonders they hold. For more insights on similar topics, check out this post on navigating the challenges of parenting. If you’re considering at-home insemination, this kit is a great option from a trustworthy source. And for those curious about fertility statistics, this resource provides valuable information.
In summary, while conversations about bodies can be awkward and emotional, they are essential for fostering understanding and acceptance. My approach is to keep it simple and honest, preparing for deeper discussions in the future when my son is ready.
Leave a Reply