Pop culture would have us believe that great chasm exists between boys and girls.
At the ripe old age of almost 6 months, that gap seems not so much chasm-like, but more like the fence that divides two yards: although it runs through two different households, the grass is still grass on both sides.
Logan's babyhood has been remarkably similar to his sister's.
Except for one thing, and it involves... well, his thing.
Leah went through a very brief phase of exploration which was unquestionably linked to the fact that we were naming all of her anatomy. Elbow, shoulder, ears, fingers, knees. For a week or two, when I would change her diaper, she would look at me curiously as if to say, "we haven't talked about this one yet." It was an indictment, really; just shy of an accusation.
My sweet baby boy, on the other hand, has reached this phase all on his own, and it is in no way due to the fact that we've been naming body parts.
In fact, I worried last week that he'd given himself pink eye due to that curiosity. I can't keep those little fingers out of there during diaper changes!
Part of me wants to yell: stop that! If you play with it, it will turn green and fall off! (I hear that's a good deterrant, no?)
The other part of me just chalks it up to boys being boys.
Because this kid of mine? He grins like he's won some kind of prize and looks as pleased with himself as if he's just ushered in world peace every time he reaches down and finds that his little diaper buddy is still, in fact, there.
Good grief. Boys.