Peter (not the dog) has sensory issues. He won't lay with his shirtless dad because of his "scratchy" chest hairs and prefers free-balling it when possible. He's mesmerized by his body and was just showing me the veins on his scrotum. To others this would seem bizarre, but to me this is status quo in our household.
The other day I heard Peter's screams for help from the backyard. His penis somehow got caught when he was scaling a fence. Hours later his appendage turned purplish-blue. "I feel like my penis has a black eye!" he complained. Times like this I want to comfort him. And times like this I realize just how his mind works.
So, too, the time when I told him he'd been "kicked" off the bus and he swore that nobody hurt him. Or the time he asked me how to write a "P" when I told him to use a pea-sized amount of toothpaste. He was really confused when he overheard me telling my husband not to "burn any bridges" at work. Of course, anything about fire has always piqued his interest since he was a toddler.
These examples are amusing and at the same time alarming because I'm terrified for his future. I guess I'll continue to appreciate the little victories, like sleeping through the night and urinating in a toilet instead of on the garage floor. Mothering him is like a twelve-step program and maybe one day I'll be far enough in to feel recovered.