Three of our seven kids (Numbers 4,5, and 7) are girls.
I have felt very strongly with all of the kids, but the girls especially, that it’s important for them to feel comfortable with their bodies.
Comfortable talking about their bodies.
To own their bodies.
So from birth, I have taught them and encouraged them to use the “proper” terminology for all their body parts.
Straight out of the gate, Number 4 was a pistol.
Her, how do I put this positively,
enthusiasm and energy,
have always set her apart from everyone.
She can be a source of frustration for me, but really I admire her tenacity, her perseverance, her curiosity, and her individuality.
Number 4 began talking early.
Combine this with her innate qualities as well as the acquisition of the word vagina, and you have a recipe either for disaster, or some serious comic relief.
And that brings me to my story.
My parents were at the house for a visit.
Mom (Grammy) was out on the back deck with some of the kids.
My father (Papa) was playing in the yard with Number 3.
I was in the kitchen getting some stuff ready to eat.
It was a Norman Rockwell kind of moment.
Until Number 4 ran into the kitchen, repeatedly screaming “Mommy!!!” and crying hysterically.
“What’s the matter?” I asked her.
“Grammy took my fruit snacks away,” she said in between sobs, tears streaming down her face.
“Why?” I asked her.
I put them…snort…
in my vaginaaaaaaa!!!”
Well, how silly of Grammy.
Isn’t that where everyone puts them?
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