Dragons, willies and the Apple of Destiny

Mothering Frights

Being the mother of two sons, it was only a matter of time before the topic of willies reared its ugly head. Hmm. Maybe I should rephrase that… Actually, let’s not bother. I don’t think I have a sufficiently sophisticated grasp of the English language to prettify willy talk.

Obviously, my sons love their willies (well, someone has to). Their appendages are a seemingly constant source of entertainment and intrigue, and they are an ever-increasingly frequent topic of conversation and focus.  My two year old was in the bathroom last week, nude, waiting with me for the bath to finish running. He leaned over and swished his hand in the warm water, and was astonished and more than a little delighted to see a stream of wee burst from his willy. If he wasn’t already urinating, I swear he would have wet himself laughing.  I laughed a little less voraciously as I mopped up a large puddle of piss from around his feet. So now, he is working his way through all the different bath-based positions that he can wield his magic wee-making willy: crouching with his bum cheeks skimming the water’s surface, standing up in the water, lying down, seated with his legs akimbo… and as the bath water turns a pale shade of yellow, the use of the flannel floating in the water is like a little game of Russian Roulette for the face.

Not long before that, my five year old had got out the bath, spotted his rather alert-looking willy and proclaimed: “Look  mummy! Pinocchio Willy!”  After I had eventually stopped laughing, I mused on the fact that quite frankly, it is an absolute crying shame that willies don’t grow large every time their owners tell a lie. It would save me, all other mothers, and let’s face it, humanity in general, from a whole world of pain. Is that a banana in your pocket or are you just lying through your bloody teeth again? Marvellous.

And then, on a walk to school, it became clear that his willy was still very much front of mind. Or front of pants, perhaps. E picked up a small apple-type fruit that had fallen from a tree. He held it in his hand for a while, and then said:

“Look, mummy, it’s the Apple of Destiny.”

I have no idea what he has been watching to have come up with a phrase such as the Apple of Destiny, but I was intrigued (and a little apprehensive) to find out more. After all, if you can tell your future by staring into a glass sphere, I don’t see any reason why taking a nibble from an apple can’t at least predict what might happen tomorrow.

“So what does the Apple of Destiny do?” I asked.

“It saves people.”

“From what?”

“From dragons.”

Well, why not indeed? “Oh, that’s excellent,” I replied. After all, a plague of dragons is surely going to be the next big public health scare, so it is very reassuring to know that we are in possession of the Apple of Destiny to save us.

We walked in silence for a short while.

“Do you know what else it does?” E asked me, holding the Apple of Destiny in his outstretched hand.

“No. What else?”

“It makes your willy grow bigger.”

And right there is a conversation that encompasses a five year old’s universe: dragons, willies and the Apple of Destiny. In fact, where’s that pencil… I feel an idea for a board game coming on…

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