Balls & Strikes

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As baseball season approaches, and those of us who enjoy baseball are being deprived of it at all levels, I am reminded of a season when John, my then 10 year-old, played for the Duck Creek Tire team in the BPV baseball league. His coach was the principal in the first school John attended when we moved here and it was a great surprise to find out he had been able to get John on his team.

At the first practice, I sat on the bleachers watching Coach work with the boys- assigning them to different positions to find strengths and weaknesses and throwing pitches and dodging hits. At the end of the first practice, he pulled the kids into the dugout to discuss practices. Being a mom, I was listening to the information he was giving out because I was the party responsible for getting my kids where they need to be. My job title of “stay-at-home-mom” was really a bogus title. My daily activities were more comparable to a taxi cab driver than to someone who “stays home”.

At the end of Coach’s talk, I heard a word I was not ready to hear. At first I thought I heard wrong, and so my ears did that little twitch that all mom’s ears do when they were not sure they heard something right and are waiting for a replay. No, I heard it right. “Cup.” I am no man, but I know that Coach was not talking about a drinking apparatus and I suddenly realized that my son, my little angel boy, is equipped with the accoutrements that would require the aforementioned necessity. I shivered as I thought of myself having to figure out exactly what he would need and then the horror of having to figure out how it goes on…or under…or around.

Swing and a miss. Strike 1.

Being a Boy Mom can be exhausting because every stage of life offers a challenge. There’s the newborn-until-potty-training phase we like to call “watch out, get control, that thing will spray everywhere!” There’s the phase where you realize that boys like to get dirty and have no idea how much mud the bottom of a tennis shoe can hold. There’s the inevitable time frame where boys think they are invincible and climb very high things and Peter Pan themselves right off. Thereafter comes the chapter when you realize they have no concept of the fact that Mom doesn’t always want to hear about their adventures- “hey Mom! We went walking through the storm sewer tunnel and there were lots of dead animals in there! Can I have a cookie?” There’s the moment where you realize your home is starting to smell all gamey and locker room-like and you stock up on deodorant. And then lastly, you become conscious of the fact that boys settle a lot of disagreements with physical force or wrestling, regardless of their age- and that one just continues through an indefinite amount of time.

This was going to be one of those phase-defining moments when I have to tackle something of which I have no understanding. Enter my husband! He’s a guy. This is his area of expertise.

I went home and informed Scott of the needed materials, which was met with an explanation that he would be out of town for a business trip and wouldn’t be available much that week. So… exit, my husband!

It was very clear to me that I, the mom, the only existing female in our little family unit, was going to go on this shopping adventure with my son.

I took John with me to Wal-Mart one evening and after placing several other necessities in the cart, we headed to sporting goods. We walked through the aisle looking at our options- small, medium, large. Uhhhhh. I don’t know. I mean, who’s to say? How does one determine a “size”? I asked John which one we should get and he shrugged his shoulders and said, “I dunno.” I looked a little while longer but I honestly couldn’t figure out how they worked. I mean, how on earth do you attach it?!

We left. Strike 2!

Later that week, John informed me he also needed cleats. Cleats I can do! Cleats go on feet! Don’t know the size? That’s ok! The stores have a little contraption that can measure your foot! I’m pretty sure that nothing like this exists for cup measurements. Don’t even try to imagine it. You can’t unsee it.

We headed over to a sporting goods store in Davenport.  I decided to take care of the least painful part first and head back to the shoes.  We were approached by the salesman and he knew exactly what we needed in the cleat department.  He was great! He was friendly!  He was knowledgeable!

After he fitted John for shoes, he asked if I needed anything else.  Well, do I?  Do I need anything else? 

“Uh, yeah, so he needs a cup.”

“Oh, no problem.  Right this way.  What size?”

Seriously? Again with the size.  “Well, you’ve got his shoe size. I don’t suppose-”

“Um, no”  he says as he turns his head away from me and laughs as nonchalantly as he can.

“I have no idea how to determine a size for that,” I say, as I throw my arms up in disgust with the world of man stuff.

“Oh, well, it’s just the waist size.”

While that comes as a huge relief to me, despite that it makes no sense, I now have to vocally admit that I have no idea what his waist size is. How do I not know this? At this point, I’m pretty sure this guy thinks I am the most useless mom ever.

Almost strike 3, but we’ll call this a foul tip out into the bleachers.

The salesman said he could measure John’s waist, but apparently the staff at this particular store are not prepared to assist uninformed, uneducated mothers like myself who are unaware of their son’s waist size, because when he returned he was carrying a tape measure- like the kind you would use to measure a piece of lumber. I take the tape measure and find an approximate measurement.  They have one left! and off goes the salesman to retrieve my purchase. He returns and hands the package to me to me- it looks like a pair of boxer briefs.

“Yeah,” I say, “I don’t know what to do with this.”

 “Oh!” he says, (although I’m pretty sure he was thinking, ‘of course you don’t! You haven’t made any contribution or exhibited any knowledge about being a mom since you walked in the door!’) He explains that the compression shorts I can see through the plastic packaging actually hold the cup inside a little pocket.  He pulled it out of the package for me and showed me- you just slide the cup into its little home and put the shorts on.  New moms, you’re welcome.

Cleats, check.  Cup, check.  Dignity, check.

That experience left me with a pretty good amount of confidence that I can navigate myself through this phase of my Mom of Boys life, but I wasn’t the only one feeling confident. One day, shortly after acquiring the safety equipment, I could hear two voices coming from the bathroom.  John and his little brother Sam.  I leaned in to listen to the conversation…

(Dull thunking noise) “Did that hurt?”

“Nope.”

(Louder thunking noise)  “How bout that?”

“Nope.”

Success.

The season ended well, but I lost count on how many times I had to say things like, “please do not take your cup off in the kitchen and leave it on the dining room table.” Ugh. Boys.

Now that he’s all 20 and a grown-up, he doesn’t need me to help him much anymore. When he does actually need me, it’s welcomed with enough enthusiasm to let him know I’m happy to help, but not so much that he won’t ask in the future. It’s a fine line. A life with boys is a life full of contradictions and every stage offers something contemplative and gross and enlightening. I’m glad the gross stages are over. Well, maybe they’re not over, per say, but I won’t hear about them. In some ways I miss those days where he depended on me for so much. I look forward to the day (not too soon, though) when he has littles and we’re back at the ballpark again, watching them take a few swings. In the meantime, I’m going to relish in my now easy life of buying girl stuff like (here’s the pitch…) nail polish and shoes and pink pillows. Yeah, baby! Home Run!