Apron strings

I was laughing today, as I clumsily helped my son fasten his garters to his stockings. I kept hitting my elbow on the cup in his girdle. He said to me, "Shut. UP." But I couldn't. I promised I would never tell anybody about helping him to dress, but I LIED.
My son is manly man. He plays manly sports. He is a large boy, who delights in using my head as an arm rest. He can lift heavy things. He mows the lawn. He has way too many girl friends who call him all hours of the day and night. He sucks at academics, is currently in summer school, and anticipating his vo-tech training as an electrician. I won't let him get his driver's license because of his grades. I'm mean like that. But I do let him play his sports. If I did not, he would likely explode. He plays golf and baseball, and currently is pucking around with hockey. You know what I love about a summer hockey league? It is just so COOL. Get it? Cool? Huh huh. Shut up, Beavis.
It is for this game of hockey in which I had to dress my little boy. You probably thought I had a bit of a cross dresser situation, didn't you? Hah, silly internet people. No, the requisite uniform for big burly hockey players consists of 20 pounds or so of hard shell padding from head to toe. Once the protective gear is on, it is no small feat to get the rest of the clothing and skates on. Normally, Mr. Big and his teammates assist each other in some secret locker room society ritual thing that he won't talk about. But today, I bought him new garters, and he just had to try them on right away! I was so proud. Over the shin guards go some nice knit stockings, (aka leg warmers) that attach to some shoddy velcro crap on the legs of the girdle. The girdle is like boxer shorts with protection. Anyway, when the stockings/leg warmers have been ripped away from the velcro a sufficient number of times (twice), the velcro no longer grips. Enter the garterbelt. This ain't no Victoria's Secret garter, honeys. This is a manly man's garter. Same technology, but in a more chunky, masculine style. No lace here, no way Jose'. Just thick black elastic with sturdy metal tabs and don't you ever bring it up either. They all wear them, we just don't talk about it. Except for me. Here. For the world to see. I'm a bad mommy.
So, the boy. I had forgotten how much being an adolescent really blows. Not having had the experience of growing up male, either, I now have a new respect for the assholes I dated in high school. Sort of. But, I'm getting off topic. Somewhere in the last year or two, my little buttmunch has grown about a foot taller, put on about 60 pounds of lean muscle, and got slathered in oil. I just don't get it. My husband doesn't remember being quite so greasy at that age, either. Possibly, he just chose to forget. Mr. Big showers two to three times every day. He wakes up with his hair almost slimy. His acne doesn't seem to bother him, because he's got a beard, dude. He carries a little travel-size deodorant with him, and keeps another in his locker. He marinates in some god-awful masculine-smelling body spray stuff that singes the nose hairs. The chicks dig it. Me, not so much. My house is so full of testosterone that I can't help but wonder if THAT is what is affecting my cycles. My (neutered) Chocolate lab, the king of the couch, won't hang around the boy much anymore, with the new Alpha Male status, and all.

But he's still my baby.
And I still ground him. He still has to do chores to earn an allowance.
He has a curfew. He still likes to do stuff with mom.
He still gives me a kiss goodnight and tells me he loves me everyday.
I miss him, though.