3 posts tagged “jake”

I can only hope but please cross your fingers for me.  I've shamed him out of wearing socks with his mandals, weaned him away from plaid and madras, am coaxing him into judicious applications of hair and skin products and he's been physically active enough to lose the budding resemblance to Phil Mickelson.  I've steered him away from the Dr. Spock haircut, introduced him to music outside of They Might Be Giants and Greatest Hits of the Ukulele and persuaded him to try reading books without any pictures.  He no longer craves foods that are orange, eats products without nitrates and the only carbonation he ingests are free from corn syrup. 

These are all things that I have direct control over and so I'm proud of myself but yesterday he did something that made me proud of him.  He qualified to compete in this.  geekfest  This is in addition to qualifying for the Carnegie Mellon program and being invited to test for the John Hopkins program.  It's super easy to raise a nerd, that's why there's so many of them but to be mother of a geek?  That is something I aspire to.

My kid never believes me, for some reason.  He has to verify all truths for himself.  "Don't touch that, it's hot.", I'll say and he must still touch the object with his tender finger and yelp in pain.  "If you eat that quickly you'll be uncomfortable afterwards." will guarantee that he'll be looking for sympathy while lying there holding his tummy.  "If you don't put this sunscreen on, you're going to burn even if it is cloudy today." means that he'll be complaining of sunburn and asking for some aloe at bedtime.

The school wants all the sixth graders to get physicals this year and will provide them but I trust our pediatrician more.  Jake got all nervous about it though and started grilling me as to specifics.  He could ask his very own father, since Jeff used to be a pediatrician but noooo, he chose to ask me.  Me.  The person he doesn't trust, for some reason.

"Do I have to get naked?"
"Mmmm, don't think so.  Ask your dad."

"Am I getting any shots?"
"Yes.  You're due."
"Why?"
"Because you're due.  Ask your dad."

"What else do they do?"
"They weigh you, measure you, check your sight and hearing, reflexes.  Ask your dad."

This went on for days with him springing the same questions on me in hopes of catching me out in some variation, some lie, a mistake, but I held firm.  The people who know these things tell you that consistency is key with children and absent any real, practical advice I cling to the few guidelines that don't involve too much thought.  Occasionally though, I break under the pressure.  It's like waterboarding, the incessant prodding and a woman of my limited intelligence can hold out only so long before I spill the truth that my son knows I'm keeping secret.  He vets my replies with that unassailable authority that all children become privy to - their "friends", aka the playground information network.

"Do they squeeze your balls?" he asks, as I'm cooking.  It's always like this, seeming non-sequitors that get fired at me when I'm distracted.  I'm more likely to be caught off guard and tricked into blurting out the real plans.

"Do they do what?  Squeeze your balls?  Who told you that?"  I'm buying time because I think they are going to squeeze his balls and I don't want him obsessing about having them squeezed for the next two weeks.

"Michael.  He says that the doctor squeezes your balls."
"Well, I don't know if they squeeze them for this exam but ask your dad.  He was a pediatrician, you know."
"Why do they squeeze them?  What's the purpose?  Will I get my balls squeezed at some point?"
Oh lord, please heal my shredded tongue.
"Well, did Michael say why his balls got squeezed?"
"To check them.  What are they checking them for?"
"Umm, maybe they're counting them?  Maybe, they make sure you have two and not one or three and so they are just counting them."  That one ends with us cracking up at the doctor discovering the wrong quantity of balls.  "Good heavens!  I'm calling Ripley's right now, stay right there.  Don't go away, I have to get the camera.  Nurse, nurse!  Jacob Marshall has threeeee ba- er, testicles!"  We agree that it might be better to have one too many rather than be short one.  In the ball department it can't hurt to have a spare for when you get hit by stray balls or random girls in the cafeteria line.

I'm lulled into believing that I've assuaged his anxiety with my trademark Mom schtick but no, he lets fly again.  "So, if she squeezes my balls, is it going to hurt?"  Jeeesus, I'm gonna squeeze them myself if he keeps bringing it up at inappropiate times.  I'm just a tad thrown off to have this hurled at me while I'm paying for my purchases at the concession stand and while I'm not truly bothered by what strangers think, I do want my children to have a rudimentary grasp on social conventions.  I imagine that it will come in handy at job interviews and dating people with thumbs.  So I ignore him until we're out of earshot and then tell him we'll talk about it later.

Later means that he's all tucked in bed and buying some more time before he has to shut his light off.  (I'm thinking that he may be getting just a tad too old for this ritual but that's an issue for another post)  He's gotten his kisses and instead of turning out his light he says "How old do you have to be before they squeeze your balls when you go to the doctor?"  "I'm not sure, I don't have any so you'll have to ask your dad.  I love you, sleep tight."

I actually spend time thinking about what exactly is making him anxious and consider asking if I can have one of the male partners at the practise do his physical.  Perhaps that the crux of his worry, having Cynthia be the one to "squeeze his balls" but when asked, he says that's not a problem.  He likes his doctor and is a creature of habit so it's not that it's a woman.  Evidently he's become fixated on the squeezing. of the balls.  I explain it to the best of my hobbled ability, not owning said articles gives me a distinct disadvantage, yet again.  I tell him to ask his father, yet again but Jeff's out of town and I keep forgetting to yell "ask him about the balls" when Jake's on the phone with him.  I am a bad mother.

The morning before the exam, it finally comes to a head.  All the previous grilling serves its purpose, building to such a pressure that I finally crack when he comes at me again.  Please, understand that this time he drilled down at 6:23 a.m. and I had not yet had my 8 ounces of espresso strength coffee.  Please.  There's only so much I'm capable of as a parent and coffee is my ally in this undertaking.  Poor choices got me to this place but coffee helps me to make better ones.  Without coffee I make more poor choices, as the following will show.

"Okay.  So if she does squeeze my balls it's not going to hurt, right?  Mom?  Wake up, Mom."
"Right.  It shouldn't hurt.  When she sticks her finger in your butt, it might."
"Whaaaaat???  A finger in my butt?"
"Nah, only if I pay extra."

By the time I got him out the door for the bus, I had him calmed down and giggling, kind of.  In that nervous way.I soothe him and agree that it was indeed a very sick thing to say to my 11 year old, no matter that he finds Family Guy the highest source of funny on the planet.  Dumbass.  I mean, Family Guy and not Jake.  Of course.

"Ask Michael, he'll tell you that you're not gonna get a finger up your butt."  That seals the deal, in his mind.  I lie but Michael doesn't, evidently.  However, Paul is not to be trusted at all.  He's even worse than me when it comes to information.

"Mom?  What's a hernia?" he asks, while trying not to snicker.  Since I had already had coffee at that point I knew how to respond appropiately.  "I'll tell you but what do you think it is?"  "Well, Paul says it's when you swallow your food and it drops down to your ballsack."  See?  Paul needs to drink more coffee.

"I heard you.  You said to go and do something boring and character-building"

- Jake, in reply to my question "Are you even listening to me anymore??"