My daughter’s vagina terrifies me.
She’s 2 and not very intimidating generally, but her vagina is like a 50-megaton WMD -- Weapon of Male Discomfort.
The problem starts with the very phrase my daughter's vagina. Find a man in this country who is comfortable saying or even thinking those words and I'll show you a foreigner struggling with English as a second language or Louis C.K. working out new material.
Because I’m a “modern” dad, I uncomplainingly do my share of nether-region maintenance for both my children. But being valet to the Vajayjay Jr. on a daily basis means, inescapably, that I have to sometimes consider its future. Specifically its sexual future. When it will inevitably be ... exercised. With some ... man. Or woman. Or Robin Thicke at the VMAs. Or ...
GOOD GOD CAN WE STOP TALKING ABOUT THIS ALREADY?!
I will confess a good amount of my fidgetiness is guilt-based. To a man, a daughter’s vagina can seem like a whopping serving of poetic justice. “For crimes against the female genitalia, real and imagined, you are hereby sentenced to spend 2 to 5 years caring for this miniature version. Court adjourned.”
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It makes me wish sometimes I lived in a different era. Remember that scene last season in Downton Abbey where the goodly doctor refers to Grantham’s daughter’s urine in front of the Dowager Countess and Grantham looks like someone just proposed they all smoke crystal meth and play strip cribbage? Daughters didn't even have vaginas in those days. Below the waist it was all just crinoline bustles and “Pardon me, wasn’t that the dinner gong?”
Then again, Grantham’s daughter died in part because of that whole attitude, so never mind.
It’s ok. I can bear this cross. Because I’d do anything for my little girl. Well, almost anything.
There was that time my daughter demanded someone blow on her bare business to relieve some God-knows-what kind of imagined toddler ailment.
My response to that one was, “Honey! Our daughter needs you!”
Image via gorgeoux/Flickr