The other night I walked into FB's room to say goodnight, confiscate all video games and, once again, inform him I can hear him cleaning out his closet when he is supposed to be sleeping so he should stay in bed to save us all the aggravation, and I saw What's Happening To Me? lying on the carpet. This and Where Did I Come From? have been pretty standard bedtime fare for my kids since day one. I am a nurse after all, and an L&D nurse to boot. My kids are gonna have the information they need, with strong caveats that they are not to share this information with friends who may have parents who don't share my philosophy of transparency in the sexuality department. But I digress. The next day we were at the Y for swimming lessons. We use the family dressing rooms because I can't trust SoS to go in the men's without causing a riot, fire, famine, or at least taking 2 hours to get out of the shower. This family togetherness doesn't bother FB because, well, shame is a scarce commodity in our house and FB has yet to discover middle school modesty. If it weren't improper, I'd probably still prance around nudelet the way I do when they aren't here. Except for the fact that FB could no longer form a sentence or bring his gaze above chest level when he was 6. Okay! No more barging into my bedroom or bathroom unless I have foundation garments on at the very least! (And if you're wondering, SoS hit that stage at about 4. Precocious.) And I digress again. My point is, as I am trying to hurry these children along, my back to FB to give a little privacy, he asked me a question as I was picking SoS's suit up off the floor. On reflex I turned my head and OMFG! The kid has pubes! At first I thought it was lint from the towel, but the Y uses white towels. My mind refused to grasp this concept of the impending maelstrom of puberty, despite the complete man growth under his arms. I must be delusional, low blood sugar, psychotic even to have imagined such a thing on my sweet little 10 year old. Surreptitiously, I glanced again. Nope. Didn't imagine it. I need a vodka with a valium chaser. Needless to say, today FB went to the men's dressing room while I ran herd on SoS in the family changing room.
I, of course, have to share this with all and sundry (obviously). My dear friend said, "Well, you know GMC (her son) told me that it isn't good if your balls are squishy." What the hell? Apparently, after my talk of testicular cancer with FB (neighbors of my parents' had a grandson lose a testicle at 15 to testicular cancer), and how testicular checks should be a regular occurence (and wasn't THAT fun to teach: this bag is your scrotum, the two little balls inside are your testicles and if you are ever talking to me that is what you call them. Not jewels, not balls, not marbles, not eggs..just testicles. All this while FB laughs insanely. Single motherhood. yay.), he decided to be the voice of prevention and told GMC to pick one day a month to check his junk. I think the American Cancer Society should give him a kickback. Or maybe there's a merit badge he can achieve. Oh, and two girls, who may or may not have been in middle school, apparently asked him out. FB, in true fashion, didn't say anything and just walked away. We'll work on graciously declining invitations once I'm sufficiently medicated.