When our older son was born—and let's call him Zach to protect the innocent—he had a skin tag on his foreskin. Skin tags are those small, extra, mutant pieces of skin that suddenly appear on your body one day, unannounced and unwelcomed. They are annoying, but for the most part they are no big deal.

This one, though, was on Zach’s penis. I wanted to ignore it, but I couldn’t.

We were planning his bris, and I become obsessed with the possibility that the skin tag would somehow complicate the circumcision, or worse, cause the mohel to cut too deeply.

None of that happened. There were no problems at all with the circumcision.

Well, not exactly.

There were no physical problems, but there were psychic ones. For me, at least.

Zach’s penis, and then his brother Slater’s, looked fairly large to me at birth—large enough, anyway—and this had made me happy. But here's what they don’t tell you about circumcisions: When the hood is gone, much of the size goes with it, and seeing this made me sad.

This is not something my wife worries about. I don’t think she’s spent one moment contemplating the penises of any of our boys. Which isn’t to say she’s not a caring parent. She cares about their ability to socialize and how we can enhance their emotional intelligence. She also cares about their study habits, and whether they’re kind and good.

Unlike me, she doesn’t think their penises represent a physical manifestation of being a man, and the idea that swinging your dick says something about who and what you are, even if you’re the kindest man around.

It’s about swagger, and that means nothing to her.

Like any parent, I'm terrified that I'll fail my kids in ways I can’t even contemplate yet. And also in ways I can entirely contemplate but also might be aspects of life I never really understood in the first place, which is just as terrifying.

For instance, I'm pretty sure it's my job as a father to teach my sons how to act like they have the biggest dick in the room, even when they do not. If my sons just had the biggest dicks in the first place, it would save me some work and anxiety.

When I was barely older than my oldest son is now, I was on the high school wrestling team and there was a senior named Donald whose penis was at least a foot long, soft.

Donald would sit in the locker room naked. Holding his penis in one hand, he would casually swing it back and forth as he held court and expounded on life in all of its myriad complications.

I would sit there, mesmerized, and it’s even quite possible that he hypnotized me.

It’s also quite possible that Donald's enormous schlong did him no favors, and he's no more the CEO of Fortune 500 company than I am. But hell if he wasn’t the most confident guy in a room full of confident guys.

(Sometimes even the smallest guys have the most confidence. Find out how in the Secrets to Pleasing a Woman from a Guy with a Micropenis.)

I am not that guy—not like he was—and while it may be too late for me to change, it doesn’t have to be for Zach and Slater.

But can I teach them confidence, and model it, when I don’t always feel it?

I’m not sure. So what if my boys are not prepared to go out and conquer the world? Not just experience it, but own it? What then?

While I still endlessly worry about their self-confidence, I think a lot less about their penises than I once did. Which seems healthy, because the little baby with the skin tag is not so little any more.

I have pulled back, stopped and watched them both slowly, sometimes fittingly, move away from us. But interestingly, Zach wants us to see his penis more than ever.

He finds reasons to towel off in the living room.

He lets us walk in on him as he casually lounges naked in his room.

I look away, but inside I smile.

There’s a little Donald in him, and some swagger, which means maybe I’ve done my job after all.

(You can learn a lot from your dad, if you take the time to talk to him. Find out Why You Should Talk to Your Dad Like It's His Last Day on Earth.)

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