discovering each other's private parts

BY CHRIS MONTGOMERY

Not long ago, my children discovered that they have a penis and a vagina. It's true. The boy has the penis, the girl the vagina. On a recent homecoming from school (and I use the word "homecoming" with all of the pomp and none of the circumstance), the two blissfully oblivious children shot off into an alcove of the house to engage in a one-act play that consisted of nothing but shrieking and growoaring (that's growling and roaring combined, for how else can one truly express such a sound?). Mind-boggling role-play to an adult.

After a while, yon thespians came prancing out of their "castle," expressing a desire to continue their antics outdoors. "Hell, yes!" I thought, and to the kids: "Just be sure to put your shoes on. No flip-flops on the tree." Amid a burst of giggles, they trotted around the house like happy hamsters trapped in a maze, apparently seeking the exit to the backyard. It would seem the dark closet, where they were kept for the first few years of their lives, may have affected their sense of direction. In any case, it seems not to have affected their ability to find their private parts.

Not long after the giggling thespian-hamsters left the maze, I overheard my daughter serenading her brother. This is a special time for all, during which the girl sings aimlessly and senselessly while her brother, helpless to stop the onslaught, breaks down into heaving sobs.

With each incident, I am reminded of the musical torture of A Clockwork Orange.

It doesn't take a build-up of several arguments to reach the "hot" setting on my temper gauge, at least not when it comes to arguing. There they were, a precious metaphor: two little birds sitting in a tree, one was crying and the other was full of glee. I handled it like you might -- like any parent who, unlike Supernanny, does not get to drive off in a London Executive Sedan after a day of observing a family with sexually active teens and WWE sanctioned toddler cage fights. But I digress.

With a calm, firm voice, I asked: "What. Are. You. Doing?" Quickly, I chose the girl to speak to first. After all, she was the one singing. The nerve! The spirit! I am man, me break you! "Why are you making your big brother cry?" Without hesitation, she replied: "He touched my private parts."

Pause.

At this point, my mind seems to have erased the events that followed. It is clear that neither child was happy with the outcome, except perhaps the girl, who commenced singing in her room while her brother was lectured; this much I remember.

The connection between his misery and her happiness perplexes me, but then, I am a man. It seems I am doomed to a lifetime of confusion about women, and maybe this is as it should be. No matter. The incident was never defined, I leave that to their mother -- an expert in such situations, literally.

Now, before you worry, before you judge, stop!! The situation is under control. There will be no pattern, no misconduct towards other children, and after heavy sedation and the administering of sodium pentothal it has been determined that private parts means "butt." What?!

"He spanked my butt," she said, a little unsure of my confusion. What now? Although they're all "private," the penis and vagina cards trump a butt card any day. I stood there too long. Really. I mean how much thought could solving the problem really have taken?

I settled on a lame, "Well. You two do not touch each other's private parts. Is that understood?"

"OK, Daddy," she replied. Then she was gone as if nothing had happened. Ah, hamsters and their short term memory.

Later, over dinner, my son wanted to know if he was still in trouble with the police. It seems my memory may have been cloudy, but these details do not go unnoticed by a 6-year-old. He was assured that this time the police would not be necessary, but he may never be so lucky again. Maybe it's time to put them both back in the closet, at least until they get past puberty.

Chris Montgomery has been a stay-at-home dad (SAHD) for six years, or maybe it's 60. His memory of life before children is suspect at best. He does not really believe in locking his children in a dark closet, either. What? Give up his secret hiding place to the kids? He can be reached at chrismont36@gmail.com.