Today I visited a patient who had a cesarean section and a hysterectomy the day before. Her daughter is adorable. That little one was being bathed in the baby bathtub of the ward. The nurse was teaching the parents how to bathe the newborn, demonstrating how to scoop water, wash the head, face, and baby’s private parts.
The baby was crying loudly. As the old saying goes, a baby’s lungs will expand, and the baby will be strong. I thought to myself…
Why don’t we bathe the newborn with the mother? Why not use an adult bathtub, let the mother undress and bathe with the baby, bathing and cuddling together? I wonder if the baby would scream like we just saw in the ward. Maybe, just maybe, it would feel as good as being in the womb.
Interesting… I walked out with a cheerful heart because suddenly I thought of my daughter when she was a tiny baby like this, and I bathed her every day.
In the morning, her mother would take care of it. At noon, it was my duty. I would rush out of the hospital and undress her to bathe her, wiggling in the frog position, her favorite prone position. Then I would dry her, apply powder, dress her, feed her milk, watch her sleep, and then return to the hospital to continue working. In the evening, it was usually my duty again. I really enjoyed it, let me tell you.
Once, when she was about 3 months old, she was chubby, and we were playing with soap bubbles in her tub. And of course, the “frog position”—her neck was strong then. She had just turned over a few days before (she turned over at 3 months and 3 days old, I remember). “Splash”—there were probably too many bubbles, and she slipped from my arms and sank into the tub.
She cried because her nose probably stung and she was startled. I called Grandma Hua, whom we had asked to help take care of our daughter since she was about a month old. She helped continue bathing her until finished, while her father was shocked and didn’t know what to do. Actually, I did the right thing, which was to make her drown, damn it… but it’s okay. The next day, I continued that duty with fun, and she drowned like that again a month later (laughs).
We bathed together until she grew up. From bathing her, I also bathed Ja, and we bathed together, playing with soap joyfully.
A doctor in Singapore once asked me about bathing together with my daughter at a sex conference long ago. He asked about its appropriateness. I replied that it was appropriate because my penis is her father’s penis. Seeing it until she’s familiar, seeing her father’s and mother’s pubic hair until she’s accustomed, if she wants to know anything, she asks. If she wants to know why hers is different from her father’s, I answer. We teach her. Isn’t it better than her boyfriend teaching her? And I believe I teach better than her teacher for sure.
Look, get used to it. We continued bathing together and stopped when she started developing breasts. She was entering womanhood. What needs to be reserved must be reserved. I taught both of them that way.
I taught my daughter about the “forbidden triangle”—a triangle with the base at the top, which is the two breasts, and the pointed tip at the bottom, which is the vagina. The triangle that must be reserved, the ones who can see it are her and her husband only (or if she has a wife, then her wife). As for the father, he can see when necessary.
Once, when she graduated from grade 9, her classmates and homeroom teacher went on a trip to Hua Hin together. Only a few parents followed, and one of them was Pang’s mother. Her mother kept sending me messages that she and her friends were having fun.
“Not sleeping, probably not sleeping all night, playing guitar and singing loudly,” came the message from the bus. It was almost 1 a.m. then.
That night of her trip, I received a phone call from my daughter, sobbing.
“Damn, was she raped?” I felt a burning sensation, but wait… her mother was there. I thought too quickly.
“Dad… Pang is very upset. Pang feels humiliated,” she said, sobbing.
“Calm down, what happened, dear?” Her father told her to calm down, but his heart wanted to start the car and drive to Hua Hin right then, stuck with Ja sleeping beside him. “Pang was scolded by someone’s father for wearing shorts. It’s inappropriate.”
Oh, a friend’s father scolded our daughter for dressing inappropriately. She was wearing shorts.
“Do you understand, Dad, that it’s not about giving…” She hadn’t finished crying. That giving wasn’t giving a hint, but it was an echo from sobbing. “Not giving.” “Yes, dear, continue, I’m listening.” I started to calm down. So, she wasn’t raped.
“We were playing cards, playing in the boys’ room, not playing one-on-one. We’re in grade 9 now. Some are about to leave to study elsewhere. We’re friends, Dad. We weren’t thinking about that at all…” She hadn’t finished crying.
Pang is a strong-minded person, rarely cries. I had to hug her when she cried in grade 5 when her beloved teacher resigned.
I hugged her the second time in grade 8 when she was stuck with an F and wouldn’t let go. It was so stressful that she cried again for me to hug her. Some teachers might remember my antics then. What kind of crazy F was that, to let it carry over to the next year?
This was the third time she cried like that, but I couldn’t go hug her. But still, I wasn’t as worried as she was.
“Calm down, dear. Her father might be worried. He’s concerned about both you and your friends,” I comforted her.
“But it’s not like that, Dad. We weren’t thinking about that at all.” This time there was no echo.
“Yes, dear, I always believe you. Even if you don’t tell me, I still believe. Let them think what they want. You relax. If you want to play cards, keep playing. If you’re bored, go to sleep or sing. Okay?”
“Okay.” She sounded a bit brighter…
Not long after, this time it was her mother calling. “Dad, someone’s father came to our room.” The mothers my wife mentioned were the mothers of two other kids who were chatting in my wife’s room.
“He came to complain why the mothers didn’t stop their daughters from dressing like that.” There you go, not only scolding my daughter but now my wife too.
“Listen, Dad,” my beloved wife said, letting me hear that uncle complaining. He complained that he was disappointed, that he didn’t like it, that he complained for too long. This is my wife’s room.
“Mom, please tell him to leave. Dad’s getting annoyed.” Oh, it turned out like that.
“Dad, calm down. Let him complain. He’ll leave when he’s tired.” It turned out that the mother was calmer.
“I hugged her earlier. I talked to her. She’s not too upset. They’re playing guitar and singing now,” she said, and I could still hear that uncle complaining.
“And what about his son, Mom?” I asked about the uncle’s son.
“He went back to his room.” Oh, this time I couldn’t laugh. I felt sorry for him.
“Mom, hang up. Dad’s annoyed. If this goes on, Ja and I might drive to Hua Hin right now,” I teased my wife.
I was wide awake, thinking.
The foundation of our families is so different. I felt very proud of my daughter, and at the same time, I felt sorry for that young man. Some might ask, if I had a son, how would I teach him?
I would probably teach him about “self-love, understanding his emotions, respecting women, and masturbation.” Seeing a girl in short skirts and feeling excited, seeing a woman’s thighs and feeling aroused, if he feels too much, he should masturbate. That will clear his mind.
That’s it……………….
I walked out of the ward feeling happy. The little baby was still crying loudly. The old people say that a loud-crying baby has strong lungs.
How far has my daughter come? Not too far. She’s just becoming a young woman, just having her own social circle, just being herself a lot. She’s about to go through the university entrance exams, and of course, I’ll be right there beside her.
Feeling very happy, I unzipped my pants, gently cradled my testicles, and relieved myself with a sense of relief. The fragrant smell of some flower wafted into my nose. It wasn’t ylang-ylang, wasn’t magnolia, wasn’t champaca. It was the scent of some flower. Never mind, I don’t need to know. It smells so good. A big cool breeze blew. It was the strong seasonal wind at the beginning of the year.
Strange… why do I feel my leg wet? Damn… the wind blew my pee back onto my leg. Ridiculous, my leg is wet.
Forgot I was peeing beside the house.
Thanaphan Chuboon, January 12, 2019
A small story about teenage sexuality by Assoc. Prof. Dr. Thanaphan Chuboon
Source: https://www.gotoknow.org/posts/660521