Please take your willy out of your drink. 

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I thought I’d sailed passed the early years without much in the way of difficult bottom-related situations – a friend was dealing with such scenarios as her son putting plastic farmyard hay bales into his nappy, and another has a son who proudly announced at the top of his voice that ‘Daddy has a really fluffy willy’. But recently I had a hurdle that more than made up for my so-far-smooth parenting ride, when it comes to issues of the crotch.

On getting out the bath one night recently, my son asked me for a glass of water – which I delivered to his room, where he was getting ready for bed. I think it’s fair to say this was not a naive act on my part – it had not occurred to me, (based on my previous experience of people and drinks), that he was going to utilise it for anything other than quenching his thirst…

I returned five minutes later to find him naked, in the press-up position. It wasn’t so much the fact that he was planking at 5 years old, without breaking sweat, but the fact that he was dangling his willy into his glass of water.

Me: “Ok…. erm, that’s not exactly what I intended the water for….”

He grinned, super proud.

I don’t want him to think that willies are no-go areas, so I confirm that this kind of shenanigans is fine – just not in his drinks. Or in public.  And I confirm that he doesn’t do this with his drinks at school…

He changes the subject: “Mummy, do you think that Conor McGregor listens to Skepta?”

The inevitable birds and the bees question has already occurred and was easy – it came very early on, I explained that people in love are like jigsaw pieces – he understood and it was done and dusted very smoothly. The tampon question has been raised, and again was dealt with without a problem. I thought I had this nailed. But the naked-pilates-beverage-performance was up there with his previous question about how Jesus got into God’s tummy – these weren’t on my list of things I would be required to have really helpful, non-embarrassing cool responses to, as a parent.

On the positive, I realise that all the above are potentially great tools to keep in mind – for example, to use during dating. Either of those questions, along with the dangle-your-bits-in-a-drink act, would be a superb way to ensure that an awkward date, or unpleasant relationship, comes to a sharp end. Perhaps also good for interviews for jobs you don’t want: “do you have any questions?” Or “do you have any special skills?”

So I conclude a positive take on the genitals-in-drink occurrence – I shall repeat in times of need. In the meantime, the questions keep coming…

Son: “Mummy, when I was in your tummy did I have a head?”

Me: “yes.”

Son: “did I have a body?”

Me: “yes.”

Son: “arms?”

Me: “yes.”

Son: “legs?”

Me: “yes.”

Son: “a willy?”

Me: “yes.”

Son: “a minnie?”

Me: “no.”

Son: “oh.” (*Makes driving noises and waddles off with his lego motorbike…).

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The sex insurance claim

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Before I hung up my waitresses’ apron, two aforementioned insurance brokers returned to dine. As I took their order, I informed them of their inspiration that led me to write the blog about the concept of sex insurance – and I’m resultantly thrust an email address. Later that week, I send the link, and, hey presto, I’m being sent messages that would make the late Joan Rivers blush. Not my plan, I have neither the time nor inclination to get jiggy, but it’s a huge compliment – this man is charismatic and oozes confidence and charm.

In the name of insurance innuendos and euphemisms, I explained that my policy does not pay out if he holds a policy elsewhere – and I note no confirmation of me being a potential sole-provider (this is far from a matter of commitment, this is a matter of not pouching business). I have a word with myself to stop being so suspicious, and acknowledge that there’s every chance that the coast is clear – but my gut instinct is stronger than Ron Jeremy’s todger, and I am at last gaining a little wisdom in learning to trust it. I cut to the chase and ask directly if he’s single – he’s not.

Sometimes we see things, and sometimes we just see what our minds want to see – he was only messaging in the mornings, and I couldn’t ignore that as a potential red flag.

In the words of Peter Jones, ‘I’m out.’

It served me to have no judgement, to be nice and to see the positive – he was honest, he understood my position on not dipping another woman’s chips in my ketchup, and he was a much-needed boost to my temporarily battered confidence, in the midst of the recent gaslighting experience (see previous post…). I couldn’t feel annoyed because I had no expectations, and because I felt strong for walking away. You can’t pay into a diet club and then eat pork scratchings, just because you feel like it – you have to stand strong and do the right thing. Pork scratchings taste nice but they might break your teeth – which would be fair karma for being short-sighted.

I wished him well – not without informing him that even virtual, web-based infidelity hurts like riding a saddle-less bike down a flight of stairs and using a brick wall as a brake. He was gracious in response. We checked out.

There’s a girl code – we should all stick to it.