It all started innocently enough with a case of “ouchie booty”. A nagging pain in my daughter’s little girlie parts that suggested a second threadworm invasion or perhaps an apparently common yeast infection. But when six weeks, three doctor visits, several urine analyses and 47 different tubes of cream failed to diagnose or resolve the problem, my husband and I were left to bang our heads against the wall and try and come up with a strategy of what to beg the  doctor for next.

As if six weeks of interrupted nights’ sleep due to ice pack and tylenol requests and panic attacks whenever we have to move more than 3 feet from the bathroom weren’t enough to bring a psychotic parenting episode, we weren’t clear on whether there STILL was a problem. Was she still suffering from throbbing pain down there or was she acting out because she was scared that the potentially resolved problem might come back? The doctors were confused, we were confused,  and you can bet that the mystery girlie parts illness was boggling my little one’s brain.

Sunday night the two of us circled up in the living room for a parental pow-wow to decide whether we should ask for antibiotics (my vote) or a psych consult (his vote). What should have been a simple conversation spiralled down into the dark depths of male misunderstanding and wifely slack-jawed shock. Here’s why:

I discovered that my husband thinks we women pee out of our love tunnels.

I’m going to give you a moment to wrap your head around that statement.


My husband, a man with advanced degrees from some of the top universities in the world, clearly snoozed through 6th grade Health class and had no idea whatsoever how the woman parts do their daily business. And if you think he had some questions, let me reassure you that they paled in comparison to my own.

  1. Holy shit, have I found the Holy Grail explanation for why men cannot seem to locate the clitoris? Are they looking for it inside our vaginas?
  2. How did he think that I peed during the 20 months of 2 pregnancies when I had a large mucous plug blocking up my hooha? 
  3. What sort of weird, mystery anatomy does he think connects the bladder with the vag-tube? Does he think there is a hole in my hole?
  4. All the times that I made a quick bathroom run before engaging in horizontal  contortions with him, how did that not gross him the fuck out? (Sorry, I need to take a moment here to dry heave. *hurl* Ok, I’m back.)
  5. What the ever living vagina fuck was he doing the day that they covered human anatomy in middle school?!?!?! Playing Magic: the Gathering? Dribbling a basket ball? The man has a sister….surely he saw her pee at some point in time in their lives? Dear lord, what other insane misconceptions are running around in his head?!?!

I stood staring at him as ALL of the above questions ran through my head on an endless loop. He stood staring at me convinced that I was the one who was wrong. It was the ultimate showdown in the “Are You Fucking Kidding Me?” corral. A duel to the death fought not with pistols but with awkward explanations, references to where hands go during sexy time and frantic handwaving on my part versus sheer male obstinance on his. 

I left him with a recommendation to use the incognito tab to further investigate my claims and high-tailed it off to tell the other BLUNTmoms what had just happened. 

I hope you will agree, some stories are just too good to keep to myself. Now for the love of all that is holy, someone please tell me that this has happened to you.

(This post originally ran on The Nomad Mom Diary.)


Lynn Morrison is a smart-ass American raising two prim princesses with her obnoxiously skinny Italian husband in Oxford, England. If you've ever hidden pizza boxes at the bottom of the trash or worn maternity pants when not pregnant, chances are you'll like the Nomad Mom Diary. Catch up with her daily on Facebook and Twitter.

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