There are a couple of things I just don’t do. I don’t cut grass. I don’t climb on the two-story ladder. And I don’t buy cups. I’m talking about athletic cups, not the kind you drink out of.
One of my kids returned home from a week at the beach with a friend’s family last night. He looked exhausted and had a beautiful tan (obviously no SPF 100+ sunscreen applied). I knew exactly what would happen without my intervention, so to avert crisis this morning, I gave him two tasks: unpack your bag from the beach, and get your lacrosse bag packed and in the foyer. (Lax camp began this morning.) I even gave a deadline. 9:00 P.M. I was very proud when (a few minutes before 9:00) he went out to the garage to gather his gear.
He returns with the bag, then goes to his room, and begins making noise that indicates he’s looking for something. Soon thereafter, he appears downstairs and asks if anyone knows where his cup is.
Now, as his mother, I feel it’s my job to stay on top of certain things. I make sure he has clean underwear and socks with no holes no more than a few holes. I keep shampoo and soap available, and provide meals. But I will not be responsible for his cup. I just won’t.
Mr. Wonderful remembers seeing one in his closet, so goes to help him look. I’m having no part of this search — just shaking my head and fetching a wine glass to be an observer. They find one. My son announces that it’s too small.
I just walked away.
If any other male made that statement I’d have been on it like gravy on rice. There are sooo many punch lines. But this is my kid, so it’s a little creepy going there.
As it was now too late to go buy a “bigger one” I listened as his dad asked him if he could manage for the first day of camp with the one we found. He said he could. This afternoon I’ll hand him some cash and send him in to Academy Sports to go resolve this issue. By himself. Because I’m not going to get into a discussion about what size cup he needs. Ever.
P.S. For the love of all things sacred, please don’t tell him I wrote this.