Sunday Morning Wenus

Circa February, 2015

It was early on a Sunday morning. Because it wasn’t a school day, when forklifts were needed to get the boys out of bed, our youngest proactively entered our room at 6:30 a.m. to snuggle. He was followed a few minutes later by our eldest, who snuck into the room and screamed “boo” as loudly as he could. There was, apparently, nothing funnier than scaring middle-aged people who were trying to sleep.

The arrival of our eldest was typically the death knell of snuggle time. Next to scaring me, his favorite weekend morning activity involved bludgeoning me, and his brother, with pillows and anything else within reach.

The noise attracted our dog, Wilson, who looked for an opening to jump on the bed and join the fray. He was not actually allowed to jump on the bed, but then again all involved were supposed to still be asleep. In the view of the inmates, all of these hard and fast rules were really guidelines at best. Perhaps the best way to view them was as aspirational goals.

This particular morning the laziness of our children overcame their need for rough-housing and all involved agreed to lay down. Within seconds it was apparent that both boys wanted additional warmth not provided by the covers. This warmth came from a typical source, their respective wenuses.

The physical attribute known in most circles as the penis was called the “wenus’ in our home. I am to blame for this term, which dated back to the occupation held by the character named Chandler on the show Friends. On the show the term is used to convey an explanation of what it is that Chandler does for a living. I co-opted it as a way to be able to discuss the male sex organ with the boys in public without having to actually use the p-word. Besides Minecraft, their favorite topic was, and is, the wenus.

“You think you guys could perhaps remove your hands from your wenuses?” It seemed like a reasonable request. Laying next to someone who has both hands shoved into the pants of their pajamas for an extended duration was, at best, awkward.

Our boys were surprised by the request, which was honored by a giggle, but not the removal of their respective hands from their respective groins.

“Why?” Our oldest asked. “Everyone in the room has a wenus. Even Wilson has a wenus.”

My wife had long suffered through the extremely uncomplicated approach to life displayed by all of the male members of the household. If Hank the cat was in the room he’d be performing a variation of this same theme with his tongue. Hank was most likely downstairs spending quality time with the blanket my grandmother made me years ago. The blanket, his girlfriend, occupied a corner of the couch that no one familiar with his relationship cared to visit, and he gave it a thorough round of attention every few hours.

Our youngest then sat up and shouted, “Not mommy! She’s got a big black hole!”

Wild laughter ensued. I looked across the bed at my wife, who rolled her eyes and attempted to head off this conversation by ignoring it. The boys, however, had found the inspiration for a new song. The only lyrics involved in this rhythmic chant, belted out whilst performing a congo line on the bed, were, “Mommy’s got a big black hole!”

After a few rounds of this particular song I departed the bedroom and drug all others with wenuses along with me, leaving mommy and her various parts in peace.

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