There will be no image with this post, just the words, thank you.
Zoey has a bagina. You might think this is some hybrid of a bagel and a vagina, but no, it is just what she calls her hoo hoo and she is quite insistent that it NOT be called a 'v'agina. Bagina. Bagina in the bath! Bagina in the baaath! BaginaaaaaaAAAAAH! Zoey very much loves her bagina and sings songs to it while bathing. I am very happy for her, that she has a good relationship with her bagina. I hope they have a lifelong relationship worthy of soap and song. I cannot remember the last time I sang to my vagina, if ever. Or bagina. Hoo hoo, vagine, VJ, kitten, kiwi, there are so many names for it, most of which make me cringe. At what age does your bagina lose the friendly 'b,' beginning instead with a sharp 'v'? At what age does it lose its name altogether, no longer worthy of a word but becomes one raised eyebrow, a smirk? A joke? I saw the Vagina Monologues way back when. I have heard the proud reclamation of cunt. And yet still I hesitate to even write that word. C U Next Tuesday, pursed lips and disapproving exhale, my hands tightly gripping my pocketbook. (Ah, yes--there's another term for it: pocketbook.) No matter the political stance of Eve Ensler the word still sounds gutteral and mean. Vaginas are to be discussed in clinical terms with a doctor, half-laughing with your friends, with a wry turn of phrase by the media, in the bedroom, dark, the secret life of sex. How do I make certain my daughter retains her bagina? That it never turns into a, a, a something else, something that no longer belongs to her? That it always merits the lifting of her sweet voice into song?
Maybe by not blogging about it, for one? Oh, and Mom? You are not allowed to comment on this post. I am afraid of the stories you might tell. The rest of you: please. Let's discuss.