Your penis is in the way.

The other day I overheard a tidbit of sex education being taught to two and a half year old Tommy by his five year old sister, Ellen. It went like this: "Boys can't have babies because their penises are in the way."

I didn't intervene. For the time being, I figure her explanation covers it to the extent necessary for their ages. If it comes up again in ten or fifteen years, however, I will explain that boys can't have babies for other reasons.  I will also tell her that there is, indeed, much boys cannot do because their penises are in the way though, including but not limited to multitasking, concentrating when boobs are nearby (or rock hard pecs in some instances), asking for directions and buying tampons. And when Tommy finds it impossible to do those things when called upon to do them, I will say. "Blame your penis, it's probably in the way."

My Daily Life.

T = 2 1/2 year old Tommy
C = me, his 43 year old nanny

T: Cami!
C: I'm in the bathroom.
T: okaaaaay.

T: Caaamiiii!
C: Tommy, I'm in the bathroom, .
T: okaaaaay.

T: CAAAMMMIIII!!
C: I'm in the bathroom.
T: OKAAAAY!

T: CAAAAAAAMIIIIIII!
C: I AM IN THE BATHROOM, TOMMY! HOLD ON A MINUTE!
T: OKAAAAAAAAAAAY!

pause.... Tommy opens bathroom door

T: (whispers) pooping?
C: yes.
T: okay.

THE END

On a more serious note: College advice... for boys.

Today I will watch one of my "kids" graduate high school. I was his nanny for a few years during his preschool and grade school days and it was my duty to guarantee his safety and help him navigate the early part of his journey through person-hood. The usual orders of the day included: make sure you remember to put on underwear, eat your vegetables or it will be hard to poop later, don't throw the stuffed dog at your sister even if she threw it at you first, don't take candy from strangers, and of course, always be yourself.

Now, thirteen years later, I still feel partly responsible for guaranteeing his safety and survival as he enters his college era of person-hood. Some of the messages are basically the same: don't forget your underwear (preferably clean), eat your veggies (preferably not deep-fat fried), don't throw the laptop at your sister even if she threw it at you first, don't take seemingly great credit card offers from strangers, and be yourself. Some are new: don't drink and drive, drugs could likely land you in jail or the hospital, don't plagiarize, go to class, change your sheets... all easy enough to add as a footnote at the bottom of his graduation card.

But then there is this one: Don't rape your drunk classmates.

A few weeks ago I came up with what I thought was a much more eloquent way of telling him this.  I told him to make sure he respected women, to make sure he always has consent and to help his female friends who find themselves in bad situations with booze and boys. His response was "You really think I'm gonna rape someone?"  "No. I don't think you are going to rape anyone. But I still needed to say it." Since then, I have been obsessing a bit on how I could have said it better.*

I don't think he is a rapist. I don't think he is a psychopath. I don't think he is violent. I don't think he hates women. I don't think he is a sex maniac. I don't think he grew up around people that abused him.  I don't think it is in his nature to harm anyone or anything.

But he needs to hear the words.

Because here is what I know. I know that he has grown up in a culture that teaches us all that women can be playthings. Ours is a culture where violence against women is justifiable, especially if they are wearing low-cut tops or short-cut bottoms. It's a culture that saturates our minds with images teaching us that wearing lip gloss means fuck me and that when a girl lies down it is appropriate for three shirtless men to be on top of her. This is a culture where sexual encounters are tallied and compared, where bragging rights belong to those with the highest number and where rape is common to up the tally and gang rape with photos and video are used to prove sexual encounters. And a culture where drunk means yes and where sex is a game.

These are the ideas that have seeped into his consciousness without his permission. These are the ideas that when mixed with liquor and heavy peer pressure may surface without his permission. This is why he needs to hear the word rape in association with his own decisions. This is why it needs to be added into the mix of ideas embedded in his head.  The message 'don't rape your drunk classmates' needs to be given, explained, discussed, rehearsed -  not to serve as an order, but to give it just as much room in young minds as the cultural messages that point the opposite direction. And for us to work just as hard to give young men the vocabulary to say NO to rape as much as as we do for girls to say NO to rape.


*Dear Mr. Graduate,
Here is how I should have answered your question about thinking you would rape someone: No, I do not think you would ever rape anyone. My main message is that I love you and I want you to always be aware of what the world is throwing at you without your permission so that you can  be your true self and not the self others demand or try to design. Keep your eyes open and always be aware and critical of cultural messages - regarding everything, not just sex. Be your true, awesome, loving, and brilliant self.
Cami

Happy kid + sunny day + sidewalk chalk + sidewalk =

Happy Eater, Eater Bunny!

I've only been in South Dakota for 36 hours and I've felt homesick twice because I got two great Easter texts.

 

Last night the parents of the kids I nanny sent me this picture of the note James wrote for the 'eater' bunny.

 

  

And today Gretchen, my neighbor and awesome cat sitter, sent me this. It's my cat with an Easter surprise. This is how my cat reacts to pretty much everything by the way.

 

 

Gretchen gave her a tree while while I was gone over Christmas and she reacted with limited enthusiasm then as well.

 

 

I love my boring cat. And I love Gretchen's holiday surprises! I might leave town every holiday from now on just to get holiday shots of Kitty. I could make a calendar...

Special Gifts and Awesome Parties

Little Tommy gave me a handful of fresh poop today.* This probably shouldn't make me feel special but it does. I don't think little kids just randomly give their poop away - especially little boys. They have a hard time letting their poop go. Years ago I had to convince one reluctant little boy that his poop got to go to a poop party if it fell right from his bottom into the potty. I said that if it landed anywhere else including a diaper, his underwear, the floor, the grass and, yes, even his hands, it would miss the party and feel left out. It worked, but only after a few very important questions were answered.

Q: What are they wearing at the poop party?  A: Party hats.
Q: Is it all my poop or is everyone's poop there? A: Everyone's poop.
Q: Does dog poop go to the party? A: Only if it goes directly into the potty.
Q: What do they drink at the poop party? A: Pee. (his brother answered that one, not me.)
Q: What do they eat? A: Nothing, of course. Poop doesn't eat! (Again, his brother.)
Q: Where do they go after the poop party? A: The party never ends. They just take breaks and naps.
Q: Are my poops boy poops and your poops girl poops? A: Sure, why not.
Q: Is there music and do they dance? A: Definitely.

He pooped in the potty every time after that. And each and every time he did, we answered all of those questions and each and every time we would watch it swirl around when he flushed and we'd wave and yell "Bye! Have fun at the poop party!"

He just turned eighteen. He probably doesn't do that any more. I, however, on occasion still do.

Poops at the poop party...duh.

*Dear Parents, Tommy's hands were thouroughly washed and dried after the poop gifting incident. As were mine. We used paper towels and wipes so no worries, there is no poopy laundry you need to search for in the basement. (At least not from Tommy.) Also, this is  a very good example of why I end up needing to take sick days on occasion.

Easily Amused, That's Me.

 

This is how a 22 month old says: "Go to hell. I'll get it my damn self."

 

 

 

 

This is how a cat says absolutely nothing.

 

 

 

This is how an obedient teenager pretends to be annoyed.

 

 

 

 

 

Self Awareness Via Kids

A couple of days ago I wrote about learning from children at work that my cleavage looks just like a butt. Since then I have been thinking about some other things I have learned about myself while hanging out with people much younger than me.

When I was about 33 years old, I learned that I was not an adult. There was a day when little Phoebe was very angry with her mother because she could not have a Diet Coke and I got to have one.
Phoebe: "How come Cami gets to drink Diet Coke!?"
Phoebe's mom: "Because Cami is a grown-up and Diet Coke is for grown-ups."
Phoebe: "Cami is NOT a GROWN-UP. Cami is a KID!"
Phoebe's mom: "No, Cami is a grown-up. That's why she can babysit you."
Phoebe: "She is not a grown-up."
Me: "Yes, I am."
Phoebe: "No. You're not." Then she left the kitchen and didn't talk to us for twenty minutes.

I have also learned that I can't sing. Well, I knew it already but it has been verified over and over as I try to keep up with Raffi and Peter, Paul and Mary.
Kid 1: "Cami, will you please not sing."
Kid 2: "Cami, you're ruining the song."
Kid 3: "Cami, you're a really bad singer."
Kid 4: "Are you trying to sing? It doesn't really sound like singing."
Kid 5: "Cami, why can't you sing good?"
Me: "It's well. Why can't I sing well." (...you horrible honest little %&$#*@....)

The best thing I have learned though came years ago from a young man who is now 6'6" tall and attending a Catholic university. He assured me that I will be going to heaven when I die. Out of the blue one day when he was six, Sam looked me straight in the eye and said with all certainty, "Cami, when you die you'll for sure go to heaven." I asked why and he said, "Because God won't want to stop hearing you laugh." He wasn't at the Catholic university yet but he already had connections with nuns at grade school so I am holding tight to his prediction.  This, by the way, is by far the sweetest thing anyone anywhere has ever said to me. Ever, ever, ever... And I will never forget it.

I will also never forget that I can't sing. And that I am not an adult. I hope immature people who can't sing can still get into heaven.

My Cleavage Looks Like a Butt

Thirteen years ago when I was little Maggie's nanny she wanted to read a story on the couch. She had her book in one hand and with the other she grabbed the collar of my sweatshirt to pull herself up onto my lap. One second later the book was in the air and Maggie had jumped back onto the floor. Her pudgy little arms were flailing and she was trying to catch her breath. She pointed at my chest nearly in tears and screamed, "There's a BOTTOM in there!" In her mind, my soft comfortable lap and chest had just become the place where I hid small children upside down and naked. It scared the hell out of her. I explained that those were my boobs and all women had them, which she doubted because her "mommy didn't have those."  We talked about different body shapes and sizes and eventually she calmed down and felt safe enough to get back on my lap and we read our book.

A few days ago my boobs were mistaken for a butt again, this time by two year old Tommy. He was doing exactly what Maggie had done and was using my shirt as a hand hold for climbing up onto my lap. His reaction was one of curiousity, however. He did not panic like Maggie.  He stuck his hand down my shirt, looked at me and said "potty?" I said, "no, not potty. Breasts." He said "beshts" and then put his hand by my butt and said, "potty." I said, "Yep." and that was that. Boys are easier - at least when it comes to boob education.


I wasn't going to put pictures of cleavage on here - you all know what it looks like. And I also do not want this blog to be known as a porn blog.  Then I realized that it already may be showing up on searches for words like vagina, vulva, penis, gay Travis and boobs - and I already have a picture of cleavage from the bra post so I thought, what the hell. Too late now. So here you go: some cleavage that looks like butts.

 

 

Neither set of boobs is mine.

Booby Hulks

I have an app on my phone called FACEinHOLE.  With it you can enter a search term and find drawings or photos with a hole where the face should be and insert a photo of your own.  I taught James how to use it when he was five. At the time it did not seem like a mistake.

But it was. These happened. I am guessing it was during one of several 'here, play a game on my phone while I go get your brother out of the toilet and your sister away from your mother's make up' moments. Had I been paying appropriate attention, I definitely would have shut it down before these lovely images of his sister and brother came to be.

 

(I did not know he knew how to spell Hulk with boobs.)

 

 

Three Non-Lesbians

I am not a lesbian. I am not opposed to being a lesbian but the fact is that I am not a lesbian. On several occasions I have been mistaken for a lesbian though. Which is fine, but since I am not a lesbian and am in search of a male partner, it is in my best interest to be perceived as straight.


About 18 years ago, I often babysat for my good friend, Barbara, which involved occasionally picking up her third grade son at his after school day care program. Every single time I showed up, Tyler would yell, "I have to go! My mom's girlfriend is here."  I am not certain that the caregivers there thought I was gay, but they were extra friendly to me in a 'we are not judging you' way and they definitely eyed my Birkenstocks, cut off jeans and brown plaid shirts longer than most people. It probably didn't help that Barbara was divorced shortly after we met... and was all rock and roll graphic designer hot mama with her chunky heeled combat boots, leather pants, long chain necklaces and funky thrift store jackets... and we spent most of our time together hanging out with her two kids... and went out at night to the bars together... sometimes the gay bar... oh shit. Maybe we were lesbians. But I am definitely not now.

 Here we are: me and Barbara (who, although also not opposed to being a lesbian, would like it stated
that we never had lesbian sex. Her sons may read this and do not need that image in their heads. I agree. 
Neither does my dad and he reads this too.)

You know who else is not a lesbian? Tyler. One day while we were driving home when he was about eight I asked him if he had been on any dates. He was disgusted. "EEEWW. I don't like girls!!" Being a liberal open minded babysitter who does not want to presume anyone's sexual orientation or limit a child's world view I asked if he'd had any dates with boys. He stated, "Cami. I am not a LESBIAN." I told him he was right and that he never would be a lesbian. And that was that. And, today, at age 25 he is still a non-lesbian.

Tyler did not like girls.

And They Named Him Lance.

Once upon a time there were three weird little kids who lived smack dab in the middle of Minneapolis/St. Paul. I will call them Danny, Claire and Maggie because those are their names. I will never give up their last names though - both because I want to protect their identities and because they are pretty tight with a very competent US senator who I will call Amy who could probably help them sue my pants off. (I like my pants on.)

One fall day Danny, Maggie and Claire were frolicking in the front yard of the house when they came upon a little critter. This was not an unusual occurrence being that the house was located in a neighborhood some refer to as an urban forest. Critters are abundant around there and come in all forms including raccoons, rabbits, foxes and deer as well as domesticated kitties who roam free.

"Look! A mole!" declared Claire. It was actually a tiny gray shrew with fuzzy fur and a long snout with a little pink nose on the end of it, but I did not correct her - mostly because I wasn't sure if shrew was really the name of it.

"It's sooo cute!" yelled Maggie.

"Cool!" said Danny.

"Get some sticks." said Claire.

"Don't get too close." I yelled from the other side of the yard. The last thing I wanted was to have to rush them to the ER for rabies shots and then explain to their parents that I let a rabid mole/shrew bite them. (Because they know Amy too. She wasn't a senator yet - but she already mattered in the legal world.)

They were poking the mole/shrew with sticks when I got close enough to see that the little guy was dead. They realized it at the same moment.

"I think it's dead, Claire," said Danny.

"You're right. We need to bury him. We need to name him first though."

They stared at the dead shrew/mole for a long time.

"Lance. His name is Lance." stated Claire.

Maggie found a little shovel and they dug a little hole, tossed him in, said some words and then put a stick in the dirt to mark the grave.

They all said "Good-bye, Lance the dead mole." And went on playing.

This is not Lance the dead mole. But this is what he looked like.

I borrowed this picture from Janusmuseum.org. There are a surprising 

number of pictures of dead shrews to be found on the internet when 

one googles dead shrew.

Lance was not mentioned for quite some time until one very cold winter day when Claire remembered him. "I bet he's just a bunch of bones now!" she said.

"EW. Yuck!" said Maggie.  "Why bones?" (She was only three.)

"Cuz that's what happens when you die. You just turn into bones." said Danny. Danny determined death was final at a very young age.

Maggie, who was a strong believer in angels, was heartbroken. She was sure Lance had wings and was a perfect mole angel by then.

"Cami, can we go dig up Lance the dead mole and show Maggie his bones?"

I said, "Sure. But dress warm." I only said yes because I knew the marker was buried in the snow and because I figured the ground was too frozen for their little hands to break through anyway. And I was always looking for good teaching moments. This would be good for a 'how to deal with failure and disappointment' lesson.

They tried and tried but did not find Lance. Danny and Claire resolved to try again in the summer and Maggie went on imagining Lance in the sky with the angels.

I would not be surprised to learn that Claire now has Lance the dead mole's skeleton put together and on her desk at college. She loved him the most. If that is the case, Claire, please do not tell Maggie.


And again with the names, Claire! You actually named a DEAD SHREW. And you named him Lance! You called your  five year old male self Jim and the dead mole is Lance.... You really were a weird little kid..... and I love you for it!

That Mouse Came Out of WHERE?

I am reading Charlotte's Web with James, the Kindergartner, at work. He wants to read Stuart Little next - the one about the family who has a mouse for a son. I am fine reading Charlotte's Web even though it makes me cry but I don't want to read Stuart Little. Stuart Little freaks me out.

This is why:

"When Mrs. Frederick C. Little's second son arrived, everybody noticed that he was not much bigger than a mouse. The truth of the matter was that the baby looked very much like a mouse in every way." They take the mouse home, make it a teeny little bed and after a month decide to consult a doctor who is "delighted with Stuart" and says it is "very unusual for an American family to have a mouse." (unusual only for Americans?) He determines that everything seems to be all right and leaves.

Human family. Mouse baby. Whackjob doctor. See the problem?

Even when I was a kid this story gave me the heebie jeebies. I mean what the hell is the back story here? No one ever discusses the fact that this woman gives birth to a mouse. I didn't know a lot about vaginas* when I was six but I knew babies came out of vaginas and I knew I had a vagina and I definitely knew that I NEVER wanted a mouse to come out of mine. Stuart Little came out of Mrs. Little's VAGINA and it freaked me out then and it freaks me out now. I will not read this book to James.

I can't help but want to add the words 'the mouse that came out of a human vagina' after Stuart's name.
So Stuart, the mouse that came out of a human vagina, slipped into his old pants and prepared to go down the drain.
"Oh my brave little son," said Mrs. Little proudly as she kissed Stuart, the mouse that came out of her human vagina, and thanked him.

I do not know one woman who would not say "what the fuck!?" if she gave birth to a rodent. Not one. And maybe I am too much of a feminist, but I do not think any woman should go on her merry way after a male doctor declares that although mice being born to humans is unusual, everything seemed all right. I don't even think it would be an option to accept that. I, myself, would have a nervous breakdown. I'm almost having one right now just imagining a mouse coming out of my vagina.

I am against censorship but I really wish someone would have censored this book a long time ago.


*spellcheck is telling me the plural of vagina is vaginae. But I disagree so I am not changing it.


Kids, I will not apologize for the word vagina appearing in this post. You can call on the ghost of E.B. White for that. He wrote the book, not me. It's his fault.

A Blood Manger and a Merman

Here is a drawing Ellen (a.k.a. reincarnation of a 1950s martini drinking housewife) made last fall. I believe it points directly toward a future in a goth metal band for my adorable little pink loving Ellen - because it is called "Blood Manger."

 

 

 

 

I'll let you all decide what the future holds for her brother. Here is his drawing entitled "Merman". But I think he meant Mer-dragqueen.

 



 

Dear parents,
I promise to not judge your children for any career choices they make no matter how morbid or flamboyant those choices may be.

Children's TV and Comfort Drugs

You do not need to watch this entire video to understand why I am worried about children becoming adults who reach for LSD to bring back the comforts of their childhood.

Kids, don't let anybody fool you. Drug induced comfort is not really comfort. Remember that.

Tah-dah! I farted.

It might surprise people who know how polite I am to know that sometimes* I fart. Loudly. When this happens at work (nannying) some kids will just look at me a little shocked - probably because I am so  quiet and polite most of the time. Most kids ignore me or yell "EW, GROSS! You farted!" To which I reply, "Don't say fart, say toot, please. And my toots smell like flowers so there is nothing gross about them." To which kids reply, "We don't believe you. We're gonna ask your sister if your toots smell like flowers." To which my sister replies, "Cami's toots smell like toots. Don't believe her." To which I reply, "Believe me. They smell like flowers...."

After nearly fifteen years and just as many kids, I got a brand new  reaction to my farting today. I was standing next to a two year old who is just starting to talk and right after my fart he looked up at me all wide eyed, smiley and excited and yelled "TAH-DAH!!"  He knows how to properly use tah-dah since we use it frequently - for things like getting the plastic triangle into the triangle shaped hole, or making a play-doh snowman, or after cleaning up a big mess. But never have I said it for a fart. Anyone's fart. Maybe today I finally farted flowers.


*Dear parents,
When I say sometimes I mean rarely. I don't go around farting in your house all day at work. It's just that sometimes they happen without advanced warning and make an unexpectedly loud noise. I always say excuse me. I am a good nanny and am not teaching bad manners. The kids may tell you otherwise, but they are cute little liars.

This is not an anti-Christian rant

Preface: I am not trying to start a religious argument with this blog post - in fact I am not even wanting to start a religious discussion.  Some may read this post as an anti-Christian rant. Which it is NOT. It is simply an observation about reincarnation.

In my years as a nanny I have come across kids that have certainly lived a lifetime or two before their current lives. This leads me to believe that reincarnation may be how it goes - at least for some people. Here are two examples of my findings.

In 1999, little Claire insisted that I call her Jim during her "I am not a girl, I am a boy and you will call me Jim" phase.  This was a short-lived masculine phase for her as she soon began to allow us to refer to her once again as Claire. I had no problem calling her Jim - I don't think gender is as definitive* as some would have us believe - but I found it interesting that the name she chose was Jim. Not Cooper, or Sam, or Eli, or Zachary like the boys in her class. Not even Jimmy or James. But JIM: the name of a 65 year old plumber. Part of me wanted to investigate the time of her birth or conception* to see if there happened to be a death of a man named Jim that coincided with either event. Because really, Claire... Jim?

I now take care of Ellen, a 4 year old girl who I believe was alive in the 1950s - a housewife with pristine red salon-set hair, pressed dresses and high heeled shoes who played bridge, smoked cigarettes and gossiped about the neighbors over afternoon martinis while her husband was at work down at the bank. (Or maybe as a plumber named Jim.) I believe this because, like Claire, the names she chooses are not in sync with her current life experience. One of her imaginary friends is named Marla and the name she has chosen for herself when she is playing doggies in Marlene. (Yes, you read that correctly. When she pretends to be a dog, her name is Marlene. Marlene the dog**.) One of her dolls is called Marva and every time she sees an ant crawl by she says, "Look, there goes Judy!" Which is interesting because I have an aunt named Judy that Ellen did not know about.

Marlene - Judy - Marla - Marva. Sounds like a martini drinking bridge group to me.

This is Marva. At the time of this photo she was known as

The Baby Jesus*. I do not recall when she left that job to

become Marva.



 

I also have an inkling that there was someone named Paco back there in the fifties that played a significant role in the lives of these ladies. Ellen's other longtime imaginary friend is Paco Cinco Seis. It is very possible that there was a hot gardener in their neighborhood in 1956 or a sexy baseball player named Paco whose number was 56 or maybe it was a code name for a lover... Somewhere along the road was Paco and 56 was an important number for him because this friend is ALWAYS called Paco Cinco Seis never just Paco. (Side note: Paco Cinco Seis is from China and is sometimes a girl and sometimes a boy.)

 

More side notes:

*Please do not take these sentences as an invitation for religious discussion about homosexuality, when life begins/abortion or blasphemy.

 

**If I ever get a big dog I am going to name it Marlene. Especially if it is an Irish Setter.

If I ever get a little tiny dog I am going to name it Spiffy. But that's a story for another day.