I'm Not Even Sure What to Call This One
My oldest son started baseball this week. He's never played before, and right now, honestly, he's a bit out of his league (no pun intended). But he's enthusiastic and is crazy about the game and so eager to learn and be a part of it that I have no doubts he'll pick it up quickly. Or not, who cares. Right now, however, the boy is in love.
After his first practice, he was excited about his uniform and the gear he needed. My husband promised to take him shopping for it the next day. That night, as I was tucking him in, he informed me that some of the boys wore this "thing that you put in your underwear? that protects your, you know, your privates," while swirling his hand in the vicinity to further indicate what he meant.
"You mean a cup?"
"Yes."
"Do you think you really need one?"
"Well Mom, I don't want to get hit in the privates with a baseball. I mean, that would HURT."
"Well, the chances of you getting hit there with a baseball are maybe a million to one, but we'll talk about it tomorrow, OK?" This is me not wanting to address this part of my son's athletic endeavors just yet.
He's only 8!
True to his word, Dad took him shopping and got all the necessities. Including undies with a built-in cup. Sigh.
When it was nearly time for his game, he got ready and walked through the kitchen, a little hint of pride beaming on his face at his uniform. As I watched him walk past me, I couldn't help but notice...
Oh, I was NOT ready to see that.
It was...creepy. My son had a...package. I don't know how else to put it delicately. There are no words.
We got to the field and I put it all out of my mind until I noticed, well, I noticed a lot of "adjusting" going on in the outfield. And in the infield. And in the dugout too. It seems that all the boys were protecting the family jewels from the one in a million shot of getting hit with a baseball. These were skinny, bony 8-10 year olds who hardly had enough hiney to hold up their baseball pants, and yet there was visible evidence that they all shared the same concern. Honestly, there was so much fidgeting I'm surprised any baseball got played at all!
I'm not ready for this. I'm not. For one, how do I clean the darn thing? Oh, I just threw up in my mouth a little. I guess it's time for me to man up, as my son certainly seems to be doing. But, come on, he still has chubby cheeks!
Of course, when we got home, he and his brother were fascinated by it and I caught them both trying it on. Giggling. Which led, of course, to a teaching moment about appropriateness. There's that word again.
And so marks the end of an era. There's no turning back now.
After his first practice, he was excited about his uniform and the gear he needed. My husband promised to take him shopping for it the next day. That night, as I was tucking him in, he informed me that some of the boys wore this "thing that you put in your underwear? that protects your, you know, your privates," while swirling his hand in the vicinity to further indicate what he meant.
"You mean a cup?"
"Yes."
"Do you think you really need one?"
"Well Mom, I don't want to get hit in the privates with a baseball. I mean, that would HURT."
"Well, the chances of you getting hit there with a baseball are maybe a million to one, but we'll talk about it tomorrow, OK?" This is me not wanting to address this part of my son's athletic endeavors just yet.
He's only 8!
True to his word, Dad took him shopping and got all the necessities. Including undies with a built-in cup. Sigh.
When it was nearly time for his game, he got ready and walked through the kitchen, a little hint of pride beaming on his face at his uniform. As I watched him walk past me, I couldn't help but notice...
Oh, I was NOT ready to see that.
It was...creepy. My son had a...package. I don't know how else to put it delicately. There are no words.
We got to the field and I put it all out of my mind until I noticed, well, I noticed a lot of "adjusting" going on in the outfield. And in the infield. And in the dugout too. It seems that all the boys were protecting the family jewels from the one in a million shot of getting hit with a baseball. These were skinny, bony 8-10 year olds who hardly had enough hiney to hold up their baseball pants, and yet there was visible evidence that they all shared the same concern. Honestly, there was so much fidgeting I'm surprised any baseball got played at all!
I'm not ready for this. I'm not. For one, how do I clean the darn thing? Oh, I just threw up in my mouth a little. I guess it's time for me to man up, as my son certainly seems to be doing. But, come on, he still has chubby cheeks!
Of course, when we got home, he and his brother were fascinated by it and I caught them both trying it on. Giggling. Which led, of course, to a teaching moment about appropriateness. There's that word again.
And so marks the end of an era. There's no turning back now.
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