Weeks ago, Colt’s baseball coach sent an email informing us the boys would need a “protective cup” this season. The email probably said other stuff, too, but obviously I blacked out at the word “cup” and all I remember is forwarding the email to Jeff with the added message, “This is your area.”
I tried my best not to think about “the cup” again. My expectation was that Jeff would secure said cup and teach Colt whatever he needed to know about it, and it would be one of those things that could happen under my radar and we’d all live happily ever after.
Fast forward to baseball practice last week.
Jeff was teaching class that afternoon and wasn’t yet at practice, so I was sitting in the bleachers with a few other moms. At some point, my friend Liz’s son got suited up to play catcher so the boys could bat — and Liz and I exchanged a look. As more moms in the bleachers caught sight of one of the kids in catcher’s gear, the ice was broken.
“So did y’all get a cup?”
I can’t remember who said it first.
We all exchanged nervous laughter, and it quickly became obvious no one had taken the coach seriously (enough) and none of the boys on the field had the right equipment to play catcher.
After the coach made it clear there would be NO catcher before one of the boys would be playing without a cup, we all agreed it was time to bite the bullet.
I did it. I shopped for the cup.
And once I saw it up close and in person, I was even more mystified. Where? How? And why haven’t millions of years of evolution given us a better solution…?
Back at home, Jeff agreed to “take it from here” and soon assured me the situation had been handled.
“Is this how men feel about periods?”
“Sarah, this is how men feel about WOMEN.”
“Boy Mom” used to mean hearing sweet ‘I Love You, Mommy’s and holding hands and digging rocks out of his pockets on laundry day and cheering for every single “Watch me, Mommy!” and the best little hugs of my life. It was intangible sweetness. Sure, it meant stinky feet and perpetually dirty fingernails and running/climbing/jumping/noisemaking — but that stuff was cute and sweet and harmless.
“Boy Mom” just took a turn, folks.