I’ve been thinking about the weird and wonderful body part metaphors most of us encountered as kids. Cute euphemisms worked because the real words were so scary sounding.  Repeat single-syllable nicknames were all the rage–Ya-Ya, Foo-Foo, Pee-Pee, Bum-Bum. Food metaphors were also quite popular in my neighborhood–The Shipleys lived essentially off grid and rarely ate meat– Greg Shipley had a carrot and Julie had a peach pit. The meatier Ryan boys had wieners. 

My family was essentially in the white flour, high carb, non-nutritious body metaphor camp.  We had cupcakes, not breasts. My grandfather thought I was a good looking donut, and warned me not to get a jelly roll. My uncle Ralph chased me around the house, trying to pinch my biscuits, leaving huge bruises, until one day I kicked him in the old cruller and he stopped visiting.  

My brothers each had a ding-ding, but my sisters and I had no cute name– we had the vague and mysterious “down there.”

In early grammar school, Joey Powers was my best friend. Mrs. Powers was a no-nonsense realist and didn’t believe in pretend names. They had a medical dictionary, and one day we borrowed it and a bunch of us made up an entire alphabet of people’s names and corresponding body parts, using the real words. We had Betty Buttocks, Nancy Nipple, Ursula Uterus, and long before the concept of gender fluidity was even a thing, we had Gloria Gonads and Wilbur Womb.  We would recite this alphabet while jumping rope or bouncing a ball, and during one outdoor recess, a teacher overheard and gave us all detention– “A” my name is Alice, my body part is Anus… “ 

When I was four and my older sisters went to school I had two whole years when I was alone with my mother during the day. No one else was around to need a fudgesicle or a bandaid. She was mine, all mine.

One morning my mother was sick and didn’t get up as usual. My father handled the morning ritual of braiding hair and packing lunches– he was pretty good at it. Then my sisters and father left, and I was alone in the parlor while my mother stayed in bed. My sisters and I were never allowed in my parents’ bedroom, but that day my mother must have felt sorry that I was by myself, so she let me get into bed with her. I got under the warm covers. I was in heaven. We stayed there for a few minutes. It was quiet and dark and I watched my mother pretend to be asleep. Finally, I worked up the courage to ask her an important question:

“Mumma,” I whispered, “What do you do with your cupcakes when you lie on your stomach?”

Suddenly she opened her eyes, lifted herself up onto her elbows and said, “Well, they’re soft… “ She was completely flustered. “You better leave now.”

I was devastated. I left the room deflated, in shame.  Even though it would be a few years before I made my first Confession, I carried that guilt around– ready for when it would be my turn in the “box.”

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned- 

I asked my mother what she does with her cupcakes when she lies on her stomach, one time.”

”What? You stole your mother’s cupcakes?” It was Monsignor Neary, who was nearly deaf and spoke with a deep, gravelly, terrifying voice. 

When my friends, who were waiting for their turn to confess, heard his voice, they ran across the Sanctuary to the other confessional and the the nicer priest, stopping in the center aisle, to do a sort of drive-by genuflection– the kind where your knee doesn’t even come close to touching the floor. The nicer priest was young and progressive and he gave creative penances, like “go pick up ten pieces of litter and be kind.” He only lasted a few months in our Parish.

Meanwhile, I answered Father Neary’s question,”No, Father. How could I steal my mother’s cupcakes? I asked her what she does with them when she lies on her stomach.”

”Is this a joke?” I could hear the anger in his voice.”No Father.” But when he said the word joke, guilt ridden and scrupulous, I took it as a sign that I should confess my other sin. ”I also committed a sin of impurity.”

There were a few seconds of silence, and then he thundered, “A sin of IMPURITY! What did you do? Pull your pants down?”

I was shocked. Good thing my friends were all too far away to hear. 

”No Father. I told a dirty joke.”

“That’s a SACRILEGE against the God who made you and loves you! Say the ROSARY. Think about the Five Sorrowful Mysteries.”

“But Father I don’t have my beads.” My heart was racing. A Sacrilege! I knew about Venial and Mortal sins, but a Sacrilege– that was a top tier sin.

“You don’t have your beads? Use your fingers!” he hissed.

I said a shaky Act of Contrition while he whispered something in Latin and slammed the little sliding door shut.

I knelt on that marble kneeler at the Communion rail, counting out decades of Hail Marys, Glory Bes and Our Fathers on my fingers, thinking about the Five Sorrowful Mysteries, losing count, and having to start over. The Rosary had to be perfect or it might not erase my horrible sin. I was there for over an hour before I just gave up, knowing full well that if I left out a single Hail Mary and died suddenly on the way home, I would go straight to H-E- double hockey sticks and burn forever.

Here’s the dirty joke that traumatized me for all those years:

“What would you do if you had a million dollars?” 

“I’d buy a new fanny. My old one has a crack in it. “

Amen.