Names

I’m at my computer sending off a morning e-mail to a friend before I leave for work. My son, George, walks over to me and stands near the chair.

“Yes?” I say, still looking at the screen. “Thomas called me a teddy bear dick,’’ my ten-year old son announces. I stop typing. Did I hear him correctly? I try not to laugh. Who would put those two images together? I turn to look at my blond, green-eyed, athletic son, dressed in his school required khaki slacks and navy polo shirt.

I find myself thinking: you don’t look like a soft, round, stuffed animal. I compose myself. Name calling is a serious matter. I sit up straight in my chair.

“Who’s Thomas? Is he in daycare or school?”

“Daycare.”

“Did you tell the teacher?”

“Yes. She told him to stop, but he kept doing it.”

“I can have Daddy call her today and if Thomas doesn’t stop you need to tell the teacher again.”

“Okay.” George looks down. I can see I haven’t quite comforted him. “I’m sorry Thomas called you names,” I say, as he lifts his head and looks into my eyes. “But it’s a really silly thing to say in the first place.”

“Why?” he asks.

“Because teddy bears don’t have penises.” The words escape my mouth before I can evaluate if they are the right ones. But George always makes me feel comfortable, as if I can just be me and say anything — even things maybe mothers aren’t suppose to say so easily, like penis.

I hope he knows he is safe to be who he is with me, too. He smiles and I picture a furry, round bellied brown bear in my mind, san appendage. I join him as he laughs.

By Patricia Ljutic