I am a girl. I have 2 sisters. I was raised in a girly household. It was all pink frilly nightgowns, tea parties, Barbies, dance recitals and gymnastics competitions. 

Then I grew up and I married a boy. We had 3 children together, two of which are boys. Boys are very different than girls. For one thing, they have penises. And balls. And they are OBSESSED with these things. 

My husband is a grown man. He has a respectable job. He is intelligent. But his Johnson is his prized possession. He has more confidence in his nude appearance than I imagine any Hollywood starlet to have. I honestly think he’s ATTRACTED to his own reflection. When we moved in together and I was, for the first time in my life, given a front row seat to how a man behaves when he feels secure, it took some getting used to. The constant touching of the wanger. The pee that misses the toilet. The fact that his pecker is a frequent topic of conversation and practically the centerpiece of our marriage. I was honestly confused when hoards of women flocked to see the Magic Mike movies. I see enough male stripping at home. 

Little boys are fascinated by their wieners from the moment they first catch sight of them. I shot a video of my youngest son when he was five months old, in the bath tub and trying so hard to grab the tiny piece of flesh bobbing up out of the water. He had been trying to reach it for at least a month already; I had to document it. Every bath was the same; the second he was in the tub he was reaching for his gherkin. No matter how wide he spread his legs or how much water he kicked out of the tub, he just could not get his chubby hand around his chubber. And he would get PISSED. 

Now the baby is 17 months old, he can reach the winkie, and the second the diaper comes off his little hand is making a beeline down south. I have to keep a stash of little toys nearby to occupy his hands so he doesn’t get poop on them. Oh, and cleaning poop off some wrinkley little baby balls is a whole other ball game. 

My eldest son is 7, and he is constantly touching his weewee. Sitting in front of the tv? Doing homework? Having a conversation with his mother? All good times to fondle the frankfurter. He was barely talking the first time he proudly announced to a stranger, “I have a penis!” 

Four years ago we bought our first home. We have a beautiful yard, about a third of an acre, with shade from mature trees. You know what’s NOT mature? My grown ass husband and my 7 year old child using those trees as their own personal toilet. It’s disgusting. And yes, we have neighbors who can see. Thank God the couple behind us has three grown boys, so seeing my children naked or peeing in the yard doesn’t faise them.

Let’s talk about implants. I was a nursing assistant in a hospital for three years and I’ve seen a LOT of longfellows. I’m not impressed. They all look the same to me. But what struck me was the number of old men–and I mean OLD–who had penile implants! I mean, come on! Aren’t you tired?! Give that thing a REST! You’ve been yanking on that meat stick your whole life, dude. Let it GO.

Also, I have seen men on ventilators, brain dead, knocking on death’s door, who could still get it up for a sponge bath. Men are funny creatures. 

My husband got a vasectomy after our third child. You would have thought he was going in to have his baloney pony chopped off. The urologist ROUTINELY prescribed VALIUM for his patients to take the morning of the procedure. Are you kidding me?!? It’s outpatient surgery. It’s barely even surgery. It took five minutes. And then my husband got to lay around all weekend asking me to bring him fresh bags of frozen produce to lay against his coconuts. He said having a vasectomy makes him feel like less of a man. HOW??? He still has all the equipment, he’s just shooting blanks. As far as I’m concerned, that’s great news.

Speaking of surgery, when you’re a mom of boys, you are asked to make the decision of whether or not to chop off a piece of their teeny tiny tallywhacker as soon as they’re born. I did not feel qualified to make that decision with my first child. After all, I don’t have a penis. I left it up to my husband. But after seeing what my sweet baby went through and the months-long ordeal that followed, I decided against it the second time around. 

My bathrooms stink. The boys pee on the floor. Aim is not important to them. Unless they are consciously making a game of it, standing five feet from the toilet and arching their backs to see if the pee will reach the toilet. It doesn’t. Thankfully, I do not clean the bathrooms. I tell my husband, the day I start peeing on the floor or doing the other gross things you do in the bathrooms, I’ll start cleaning them. Until then, I’ll stick to adding vinegar to the laundry to combat the STINK of urine dribbled into underwear, because apparently my boys are single shake men. 

As much as the sausage and meatballs confuse and confound me, I’m very grateful to have a sexy husband and two beautiful sons. I know it’s only going to get worse as they get older. Veteran moms, please don’t talk to me AT ALL about the teen years. My husband tells me, from his own experience, teenage boys are ruled by the rod. I will turn a blind eye to the closed doors at odd hours, the wadded up tissues that find their way into the laundry, and the magazines I’ll probably find under the mattresses. I know someday I’ll have two daughters-in-law who will blame me for the constant touching, the peeing on the floor, and all the other pocket monster issues, and I’ll tell them what my mother-in-law tells me: believe me, I tried.