When I was little, my mother had, like, a million names for my “unmentionable.” The stand-outs: Pum Pum. Pee Pee. Gina. Stink Box. Down There. I don’t think I learned the real name for my lady part until I got to that one “Scared Straight” health class in the seventh grade—the one where they separated the boys from the girls and showed us a really mind-blowing movie about our bodies morphing into boobs and hair in weird places and, if we looked too hard at the really cute boys, big-headed babies. By the time the instructor finished with us, the word “vagina” was the least of the things I needed to know about myself.

I never really considered what I would call it when I had my own kids—not until I got my first baby, Mari, around Nick’s mom. She’s a nurse. And a vegetarian. And grown. And she believes in calling a spade a spade and a vagina, well, a vagina. I liked her philosophy on it: If you make up names for the baby’s private parts but call everything else on her body by its anatomical name, you’re telling her there’s something wrong with her vagina—that it’s embarrassing and secretive and not to be discussed with you. 

All of this has been on my mind this week after the massive uproar over the Summer's Eve "Hail To the V" commercials. If the company was looking for us to talk about our vaginas, well, mission accomplished. But Summer's Eve loses. Big time.

I don’t know about you guys, but we’ve been hot here on Long Island. Hot like the second you get out of the pool the sweat starts rolling again. Hot like a tee shirt and shorts are too many clothes. On Saturday, when it reached 100 degrees and we had exhausted swimming and playing in the hose and lego castle building (and lots of bitching and moaning for no reason), I decided to head to the kitchen, where Alex, Nora and I made banana ice cream—using only bananas and taking all of five minutes. Here’s how it’s done:

Kaspar became fascinated with his belly button a couple of months ago. He was aware of his own body long before that, of course-- he'd discovered his toes, for instance, at about the time all infants do-- but his belly button was a whole different game. He wanted to show it to everyone. And then he'd go looking for theirs. This passing fixation seemed to signal his increased sense of himself in relationship to the world around him-- both in terms of his connectedness, and his individuality. I've noticed this sense continue to develop, too, in the weeks since.

Most recently, Kaspar's perked up any time he hears us say the word "Me" in conversation-- and, hey, this happens a lot. He'll slap his hand to his chest and say "ME!" as a loud proclamation if selfhood. He definitely understands everything else we're saying, in general, but this whole concept of "me" and "you" is just rocking his world. He really gets it. I'm bracing myself, suspecting that what's next is "Mine" (oh boy), but I'm also embracing this-- embracing his discovery and assertion of himself as his very own person-- in every positive, encouraging, rah-rah-unique-Kaspar way I can. 

As I've mentioned a time or two on this website, I am a pasty white chick descended from Eastern European peasant stock. My husband, in contrast, is a Devastatingly Handsome Chinese Man. Our kids are, in my totally not biased opinion, a gorgeous mix of the two. Chinese and, uh, Mutt. 

I used to fret over Properly Exposing The Culture and all that, but at this point in our parenting careers we're pretty relaxed about the whole thing. The kids are well aware that they are "half Chinese" even if they don't really know what that means. They know they have Chinese grandparents, that we often go out for Chinese food, that Daddy is Chinese but Mommy isn't, China is far away, that girl on Sesame Street does indeed look Chinese - stuff that I feel is preschool-appropriate knowledge and awareness. I mean, it's not like we're going to sit them down tonight and have the Race Matters talk at age four and nearly-three. 

That said, Jackson, in particular, is bringing up Chineseness quite a lot lately, and I'm sort of stymied as to how to respond. Possibly because he doesn't talk about it in a way that actually makes sense. Oh no, the stuff he's doing is, for bizarro example, picking up a ribbon from a birthday present, tying it around his sister's waist and telling her "that's Chinese". Uh, okay?