As is typical for kids his age, my three-year-old son has started to express curiosity about anatomy. “Where’s your button for the boy part?” he asked recently, mixing up the terminology.
I responded gently, “Mommies don’t have those. Mommies are girls, and boys have them.” My husband and I have always believed in fostering an open dialogue about our bodies, viewing them as natural and strong, even if our fitness routines have taken a backseat since he arrived. We want him to appreciate his own body as healthy and capable.
We discuss privacy while I change into my pajamas in front of him without hesitation. Just a few weeks ago, he proudly displayed his “cool hole” at the dinner table, pointing out his underwear. I explained that while he can touch himself in private, it’s not a dinner table activity. As he’s learned to use the toilet, he’s also starting to grasp the need for privacy during those moments, although he often calls me in for assistance with getting dressed or cleaning up.
We have ongoing conversations about what’s appropriate in different settings—public versus private, home versus the bathroom. Yet, I’ve always felt comfortable changing into my swimsuit around him. That was until he pointed at my chest and asked, “What’s that, Mama?” His innocent question felt more complex than when he inquired about the boy part.
My chest tells a different story now. After my bilateral mastectomy, my breasts were reconstructed but carry scars, and my nipples have been replaced by tattoos designed to imitate the real thing. While they may not sag or jiggle, they lack sensation and feel cool to the touch. It’s a far cry from what they used to be.
Above my reconstructed breasts is a power port, a device about the size of a nickel embedded under my skin, resembling a piece of candy just beneath my collarbone. This port is where the nurses administer IV infusions of chemotherapy every three weeks, delivering medicine directly into my bloodstream.
When my son pointed to his own nipples in comparison, I explained, “No, sweetheart. This isn’t a nipple; this is where I get my medicine.”
Surprisingly, he responded, “I know,” squeezing my heart with emotion. In that moment, I shared that they are my breasts but briefly clarified that the port is not a nipple. I realize, however, that one day I will have to share more with him; I’ll have to explain my diagnosis of Stage 4 breast cancer when he was just a baby and how I had to stop nursing him to start chemotherapy. I’ll have to discuss the recurrence of the illness and how I might be on medication indefinitely. Most importantly, I’ll need to share my fears because there isn’t yet a cure for my condition.
But not today.
For now, I tell him he has a penis and a belly button, while I have one but not the other. I blow his mind explaining that his belly button is where he was connected to me during pregnancy. I also mention that some days, just like him, I feel tired and want to cuddle on the couch with extra shows.
For now, I choose to set aside worries about the words I’ll use when he starts asking more intricate questions about our bodies and their functions.
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In summary, navigating conversations about our bodies with young children can be challenging, especially when personal health issues complicate the dialogue. Openness, honesty, and timing are key as we prepare for those inevitable, deeper discussions in the future.
Keyphrase: A Conversation for the Future
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