“Don’t forget to change your you-know-what!” I shout down the hallway to my 12-year-old daughter at 6:30 a.m. as we begin the weekday morning rush.
While I’ve had my period for over 40 years, she’s only had hers for a few months. Even I forget sometimes.
“TAM—PON!” her 10-year-old brother shouts back loud and slow, his voice a perfect mix of singsong and snicker.
All right. So. Clearly, she and I weren’t fooling anyone with our feminine hygiene code.
At that precise “TAM—PON!” moment, I realize I’m supremely grateful that my kids are growing up alongside a member of the opposite sex.
I’m elated that my son knows what “you-know-what” is. I’m equally glad that when my son taunts his sister by brandishing his penis in her direction as if lassoing a steer, she knows enough to retort, “Put your junk away!”
You see: I’m a woman who grew up with three sisters. Sure, I’ve got a little brother. But he arrived a decade after me, so our ships pretty much passed in the night.
As a result, I had no clue what “junk” referred to until my husband started tossing the term around with our son. And my first sighting of the real-deal adult male anatomy was a fleeting (thankfully!) glimpse of my own father when I was around 12.
After that, it wasn’t until college, when I lost my virginity, that I saw “junk” up-close-and-personal. At that age, it was kind of shocking.
I’m happy that won’t be the case for my daughter.
My kids took baths and showers together until they were six and eight years old. I have dozens of photos to prove it (all carefully set aside for future embarrassment opportunities).
When my son was a toddler and his penis had a life of its own, my daughter was right there when I explained (after double-checking with my husband) that it was perfectly normal—albeit a bit uncomfortable—and would return to its normal state soon.
Brother-less, I acquired this kind of intelligence much later in life.
On the flip side, with my son, I’m pleased that breasts, bras, tampons, and vaginas aren’t mysterious lands. I’m thrilled (and damn apologetic) he has witnessed tandem PMS as my daughter’s and my cycles have succumbed to gravitational pull.
Of course, it goes deeper than private parts.
My son is overhearing my daughter talking about boys, how they’re all stupid, and how she’s going to wait until she’s married to have sex (fingers crossed that one sticks). So maybe he’ll be less-of-a-jerk than most guys, and respect the girl who tells him she’s going to wait.
He sees the production of her getting ready for a dance: the hair styling, outfit picking, fingernail painting—the angst a pimple can incite. I hope it will make him more empathetic when he’s the boy standing across from a girl at a dance.
He’s there when my daughter and I have discussions about shaving that bikini line, abortion, date rape, STDs, and what’s most important when choosing a husband (her must-haves: a guy who wants lots of kids and dogs, being a fellow vegetarian would be a huge bonus).
He’s two years younger, but she’ll be there when his voice deepens, when he gets facial and chest hair, when he needs whatever-they-call-them to protect the family jewels, when we talk about how birth control is a two-way street.
I love listening to my daughter give my son a primer on the intricacies of middle school social circles. About how inane social media is, but how relieved she is I finally let her get an Instagram account just to be able to say she has one.
By growing up side-by-side, my daughter and son are demystifying the opposite sex. When they round the corner into the dating world, it will be nice to have each other to help with decoding. “What does it mean when a guy says…?” or “Do you think…. means she likes me?”
As a girl who grew up in a house where the toilet seat was always down, that’s something I never got.
This author is sparing her children’s dignity by publishing anonymously.
