The Story of Christmas Brunch: In which we celebrate incarnation in our own special way

We've always been kind of matter of fact about human anatomy and sexuality with the kids. If it comes up, we talk about it. If they ask questions, we answer them. But if it doesn't come up...well, let's just say, no thank you. I'm not rushing things. Because we've discussed this. I have the mind of a prepubescent boy. I can't say "scrotum," or "labia" without giggling like an idiot.

But human sexuality has come up before. The Dictator has asked questions in the past, and we have answered them. Both of the children have been present for these discussions. However, it turns out that the Anarchist did not actually hear anything. Probably because she was too busy having a conversation with her farts. Or smashing the cat. Or having a tantrum about some imagined injustice. Really, the possible Anarchist distractions are endless.

Of course, we hadn't realized that our dear, seven-year-old Anarchist was not up to date on the subjects touched on in previous talks. And I'm not the kind of mom to double-check these things. Because...scrotum...tee hee hee.

This brunch is fancy. See the candles?

Which brings us to this year's Christmas brunch. My mother hosts one every year. It is always an incredibly classy affair. You can tell because it is held  in the dining room and the plates are made of china. Also there are candles. Seriously, my mother decorates the entire dining room in matching decor that changes from year to year, glitters like crystal, and would put Martha Stewart to shame. And we all do really wholesome family things, like holding hands and saying grace, and asking each other to "please pass the fruit." This thing is epic.

So of course, every year, over the course of the meal, the conversation eventually turns to our digestive systems and embarrassing childhood stories. (Did I mention that my mother has a framed photograph of The Pretty One and me sporting undergarments on our heads and fake mustaches in her fancy dining room?) This year included embarrassing childhood church stories...probably because we had exhausted all of the "Do you remember the time The Pretty One smeared fecal matter on the wall?" stories last year. In one story in particular, toddler me is sitting near the front row of church being extra-adorable, and extra-precocious. Toddler me, upon hearing the refrain "Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again," matter-of-factly yells out with great conviction, "Christ will not come again!" Just to clarify, I was two...so...not a heretic.

In another story, toddler me is once again sitting near the front of church, and once again being precocious. It is quiet, and toddler me has an epiphany that "Father Baldwin has a penis!" Yes. I had that epiphany out loud. Probably while poor Father Baldwin was trying to be all serious about the body and the blood or somesuch. It's a miracle my parents continued taking me to church. 

Anyway, we were recounting this story to The Pretty One's husband, and got to the end and sort of censored ourselves. We did this because it was a fancy brunch. And because there were children present. But everyone knows that if you censor something around children, it just piques their curiosity. And then you have to tell them. But we still didn't want to say it. Because...penis...tee hee hee. The conversation went something like this:

ANARCHIST (delighted by the possibility of scandal): "What did Father Baldwin have?"

ADULT: "You know...that part of male anatomy that girls don't have."

DICTATOR: "OH...I get it now."

ANARCHIST: "What?! What?!"

ADULT: "Anarchist, what is the part of the body do men have that women don't?"

ANARCHIST: "Butts? Hair? Eyebrows?"

ADULT: "Um...no? What part of the body do men pee out of that is different from the part of the body that women pee out of?"

ANARCHIST: "OH! VAGINAS! Men have vaginas!"

(The Bureaucrat gets up to leave, blushing and horrified that his pure, precious flower just yelled "vaginas" during fancy brunch.)

ADULT: "Not usually. Sometimes. Never mind. No. Men don't typically have vaginas. Anarchist, what do men pee out of? Not vaginas. That's women. Men, Anarchist. Where does the pee come out on men?"

ANARCHIST: "OH! Their belly buttons, of course! Men pee out of their belly buttons!"

ADULT: "Uh...no. I hope not. No."

ANARCHIST (confused, but still trying earnestly): "Is it their dimples?"

ME (whispering, because there is a china plate in front of me and there are real candles on the table): "Sweetheart, men have penises. That's what it's called. A penis."

ANARCHIST (squealing with the genuine delight of making a wonderful discovery): "PENISES! MEN HAVE PENISES! PENIS! PENIS! PENIS! PENIS! MEN HAVE PENISES! PENIS! (etc., ad nauseum...)"

The child squealed penises with more excitement than she had mustered for Santa Claus, our Elf on the Shelf, or the incarnation of the Christ Child put together. She squealed forever. I think the Bureaucrat died a little inside with each repetition. I think my mother, who clearly had taught her young toddler the proper names for human anatomy at the ripe-young-age of too-young-to-not-yell-it-in-church, was shocked at my parenting neglect. I think that The Pretty One was relieved that we weren't once again discussing her escapades in fecal matter. And I'm almost certain that I broke at least one rib laughing and weeping hysterically as I rolled around on the fancy hardwood floor of the formal dining room, gasping for breath and wiping tears away. 

And that, my friends, is the story of the Christmas Brunch Penis. Because what is the Incarnation, without the very reality of the human body? I know. We are so theologically inclined. And we wanted to share our enlightened discussions with you. You're welcome.

And also, penis. Tee hee hee.

The First Noelle

Much fanfare has been made (by me) about the miraculous birth of the extremely premature Anarchist. Admittedly, her birth and subsequent thriving-ness does make a pretty good story. But every year I realize that I have once again neglected the Dictator. Her birth was, by normal standards, unremarkable. But if she's going to take over a small Central American country someday, someone is going to have to write her biography, and that someone should be me. So without further ado, the otherwise neglected birth narrative of a Dictator:

Dictator Noelle

One early Christmas Eve morning, a young, beautiful, and totally pure virgin close-enough-to-a-virgin left her small apartment for her job managing a bagel shop. It was an unromantic job, and one for which she was clearly overqualified, being that she was also a genius. But she was a hard-working martyr with aspirations of graduate, or maybe divinity school. She was also heavily addicted to bagels.

The girl was childless, and as her no-skid shoes crunched  through the new-fallen snow, she congratulated herself for staving off her maternal urges, making the wise choice to put off childbearing until after she had earned her Ph.D. and could selflessly grace the world with her many gifts. Then, she assured herself, she could move into a quaint, craftsman style home in some nice college town, and set about being probably the best and most humble mother ever. And also a genius.

It wasn't until halfway through her arduous work shift, while scraping salmon cream cheese from the side of a broken toaster, that a startling thought occurred to the girl: the time of her uncleanness was nigh. (Shut up. It's a totally natural thing. I'm allowed to put it in the story.) In fact, the time had come and gone and--what, with her work feeding orphans watching HGTV in her pajamas--she had hardly noticed.

The girl took no breaks at work, because she was a martyr and such, but paused long enough to call her humble, hardworking husband on her gigantic cell phone to request that he run an important errand for her before the many church services they were to attend that night. (No. For real. Like, we went to three or something. It was insane.) 

And so it came to pass that the noble Bureaucrat marched purposefully to the Meijer checkout line and confidently purchased a snow shovel, cat litter, tampons (shut up), and a set of inexpensive pregnancy tests. "Rough day?" asked the cashier.

Upon her return to the modest apartment, the young, beautiful genius girl of humble purity fell upon her bed, exhausted, and certain that she was mistaken about the time of her uncleanness. She was just so pure and also so good at planning things and doing everything just the right way. It was all certain to be a silly mix-up.

But curiosity got the better of the girl and she made her way into the inner sanctum of the apartment. And lo, the angel of the pee-stick came to her and said, "Greetings, confused one! You may or may not be pregnant! This little blue smudgy plus-ish sign is really difficult to read! The Lord may or may not be with you this day!"  And so the girl tried again and again. And again it came to pass that the urine yielded no clearer sign. Panicked now, the girl called her sister, the Pretty One, and screamethed unto her, "HELP!"

And so it came to pass that the Pretty One, risking her own lily white reputation, made her way to the nearest Target and bought the priciest, most top-of-the-line, fancy, gold-embossed, ridiculous pee stick money can buy. And she brought it unto the girl. And the girl peed upon it.

And the angel of the fancy pee-stick came to her and said, "Greetings, terrified one. You are totally, unambiguously pregnant. Like, you are super, obviously, clearly with child. You should be totally terrified because you have no health insurance, no respectable career, no graduate degree, and no second room for the baby to sleep in. You are totally screwed. And now you will conceive in your womb (where else?), and bear a child, and you will name it Dictator Noelle. It will be the offspring of the most underemployed. The child shall reign over everyone who crosses its path forever, and its control over its environment will have no end."

And the girl said unto the fancy pee-stick, "How can this be, since I am not yet a Ph.D.?" And the girl also said all of the expletives.

The fancy pee-stick said to her, "Were you aware that the birth control pill is only, like 99.5% effective? Statistically speaking, someone's gonna get pregnant while on it, sister! What made you think you were somehow immune? For nothing is impossible with God."

And the girl said, "Here am I, the servant of my circumstances; let it be with me according to your blinking digital "PREGNANT" indicator."

In those hours, the girl set out and went with haste to pretty much all of the church services. And in every sanctuary, a picture of another more-perfect, more-beautiful, younger, and even-purer girl was displayed. And in every sermon, the terrified genius girl was reminded that the perfect/beautiful/young/even-purer girl had to give birth in a dirty cave, with no access to health insurance, child birth classes, or clean sheets. That even though she was giving birth to  the Son of the Most High, she probably had to squeeze rocks, or bite down on twigs, or something to deal with her birth pangs. And the genius girl cried out, "Woe unto me! For I am very, very screwed!"

And, financially speaking, the girl was correct. But little miracles abound, and the girl did not have to squeeze rocks and bite twigs alone in some cave. She got insurance, and a doctor, and a hospital with clean sheets and a nice nurse who gave her morphine (don't judge). And she gave birth to her firstborn daughter and wrapped her in a hospital blanket and named her Dictator Noelle, because the girl would never forget that fateful Christmas Eve when her life changed forever, and unto her was born the most beautiful, unexpected, terrifying, wonderful gift she could ever receive. Her beautiful Dictator. The one who made her a mommy.