Dinglehoffer. Twig 'n berries. Wedding tackle. Meat 'n two veg.

What do you call it (when it’s two years old, that is)?

The other day, after sitting transfixed for his daily Japanese-style brainwashing, Evan the pantless wonder spent an hour playing with his potty. As soon as he sat on it I could see that physics and velocity were not in our favour — should he pee, it would shoot directly forward all over his legs and onto the floor.

"Evan, see what we do? You sit down, and tuck in your pizzle, and then… psssss!"

The problem started when Justin heard me call it a pizzle. It’s just what came out.

"You can’t call it that!" he protested, with much more generalized male offense than I expected.

"Why?” I said. “What would you call it?"

"Wee-wee," he said. "Or pee-pee. Anything else and he’ll get teased as soon as the other kids hear him say it."

On behalf of all females, accused as we are of having overly complicated natures, I say this: WTF?!?!

On what planet is pizzle worse than wee-wee? A wee-wee gets sand kicked in its face. A pizzle has a snarky comeback. A wee-wee whines. A pizzle does cool party tricks.

The only thing that’s for certain: I’m not a fan of p-nis. The word, that is.

(I suppose my current gestational state exempts me from the 'not a fan of p-nis' category. Sorry mom, I couldn’t resist. Don't print this one out for Gram.)

The word.. it's just too stuffy. Too prissy. I don’t want a replacement because it makes me squeamish — I want a replacement because 'p-nis' doesn’t reflect how I’d like Evan to perceive his body. In my mind, a healthy sense of self requires a little humour, lightness, silliness. We all have digglers and danglers and foibles, and we're damned if we can't laugh at them. If I had a daughter (sigh), you’d never catch me using the word 'v-gina'. I'd teach her the official name eventually, of course, but we’d come up with something more colourful for everyday use. Cho-cha, perhaps. Kit-cat. Anything but what shows up in snufty textbooks.

It’s sacred because it’s yours, and it’s a gift, and it’s private. On those counts, I couldn’t be any more solemn. But why call them 'testes' when you can call them.. when you can call them…

(Pardon me a moment. He’s just in the kitchen. I don’t know these things.)

"What did you call them, when you were a kid? If the front bit’s a wee-wee, what’s the under-bits?"

"Uhhh…"

"Or are the under-bits kind of unimportant, since they’re not a part of daily operation?"

<sighs affectedly> "You’re not writing a post about this, are you?"