As is typical for children his age, my three-year-old son has begun to ask questions about anatomy. “Where’s your pee-pee button?” he inquired recently, mixing up the terms in his innocent curiosity.
I explained, “Mommies don’t have pee-pees. Mommies are girls, and boys have pee-pees.” My husband and I have always maintained a transparent approach regarding our bodies in front of our son, believing there’s no shame in how we are made, even if our fitness routines have taken a backseat since his arrival. We aim for him to view his body as natural, capable, and healthy.
While I change into my pajamas, I teach him about privacy. Just a few weeks ago, during dinner, he excitedly revealed his underwear trick, proclaiming, “Mommy! Look at this!” I gently reminded him that while it’s okay to touch himself in private, such actions aren’t appropriate at the table. As he’s learned to use the potty, he’s also grasping the need for privacy while in the bathroom, though he quickly calls for my assistance when he needs help getting dressed or wiping.
We discuss what is considered appropriate in public compared to at home, and I have no hesitation about slipping into my swimsuit in front of him. Or at least, I didn’t—until a recent encounter changed that.
“What’s that, Mama?” he asked, pointing curiously at my chest. While his question seemed as straightforward as the previous one, it carried deeper implications. My breasts, which have been reconstructed post-surgery, bear scars from my bilateral mastectomy, and my nipples are now just tattoos designed to resemble the real thing. They don’t sag or jiggle, but they’ve lost much of their sensitivity due to nerve damage.
Above them lies a power port, an implant about the size of a nickel, visibly raised under my collarbone. This port is where my medical team administers chemotherapy infusions every three weeks, directly into my vein.
“What’s that?” he asked, comparing it to his own tiny nipples, confusion etched on his face.
“No, sweetheart. That’s not a nipple. It’s where I get my medicine,” I explained.
Surprisingly, he responded, “I know,” which squeezed my heart with emotion.
I briefly told him that those are my breasts and clarified that the port is not a nipple. However, I recognize that one day I will need to share more. He’ll need to understand that I was diagnosed with Stage 4 breast cancer when he was just an infant, how I had to wean him from breastfeeding in a week to begin treatment, and how the disease returned multiple times. I’ll need to convey my fears about living with a condition that currently has no cure. But that day is not today.
For now, I tell him he has a pee-pee and a belly button, while I have one but not the other. His eyes widen when I explain that his belly button is where he was connected to me while in my tummy. I share that sometimes I feel tired and need a nap, just like him, and that we can enjoy extra cuddles and shows on those days.
At this moment, I focus on nurturing his understanding of our bodies and the conversations that will come.
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Summary
This article explores a mother’s candid approach to discussing body awareness with her young son, highlighting the balance between openness and privacy. The author reflects on her personal journey with breast cancer and the conversations she anticipates having about her body with her child in the future.