As is typical for a three-year-old, my little boy has become quite curious about bodies. Just the other day, he innocently asked, “Where’s your pee-pee button?” mixing up his anatomical terms in a way that only toddlers can do.
“Mommies don’t have pee-pees,” I explained gently. “Mommies are girls, and boys have pee-pees.” My partner, Alex, and I have always embraced openness about our bodies in front of him, believing there’s no shame in how we are formed — even if we don’t hit the gym as much as we used to before he arrived. We want him to appreciate his body as natural, strong, and healthy.
We chat about privacy while I change into pajamas without a second thought in front of him. Just a few weeks ago, he proudly revealed his pee-pee at the dinner table, eager to showcase his “cool hole” in his underwear. I reminded him that while it’s okay to touch himself in private, dinner time isn’t the right place for that. As he has learned to use the potty, he’s also grasping the idea of wanting privacy — though he often calls me in for assistance, whether to get dressed or to wipe.
We have discussions about what’s appropriate in public versus at home, and I still feel comfortable changing into my swimsuit in front of my son — or at least I did until recently.
One day, he pointed at my chest and asked, “What are those, Mama?” This question, while seemingly innocent, cut a bit deeper. The truth is, my breasts have changed significantly; following a bilateral mastectomy, they’ve been reconstructed into something that barely resembles the originals. The scars tell a story, and my nipples are now tattoos designed to mimic the real deal.
On the bright side, my new “girls” don’t sag, but they are cool to the touch and have lost most of their sensation. And if I’m honest, they’re not really breasts anymore.
Above my reconstructed breasts, there’s a power port embedded under my skin, like a piece of candy just waiting to be noticed. This device is where my nurses administer the chemotherapy infusions that I still receive every three weeks, delivering the medication directly into my system.
“What’s that?” he inquired, pointing at his own little nipples. “That’s not a nipple, honey; that’s where I get my medicine,” I replied, a lump forming in my throat as I fought back tears.
To my surprise, he responded, “I know,” which left me momentarily speechless. I explained briefly that those are my breasts, but I realize that one day, I’ll need to share much more with him. I’ll have to tell him I was diagnosed with Stage 4 breast cancer when he was just a tiny five-month-old. I’ll have to explain how I had to stop nursing him in a week to start my first chemotherapy treatment, how the cancer returned not once but twice, and that I’ll probably be on medication indefinitely. I’ll need to confess that I’ve experienced fear too, considering there’s still no cure for what I’m battling.
But not just yet.
For now, I keep it simple. I tell him he has a pee-pee and a belly button, and I have one of those but not the other. I blow his mind by explaining that his belly button is where he was attached to me while he was growing inside. When I’m feeling tired, just like him, I let him know we can cuddle and watch extra shows on the couch that day.
At this moment, I try not to stress about how to answer the tougher questions that will inevitably come as he grows and becomes more curious about our bodies.
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Summary
This article reflects a mother’s candid approach to discussing bodies and privacy with her young son, especially in light of her personal health journey with breast cancer. While navigating sensitive topics, she emphasizes the importance of open communication and the natural aspects of the human body.