May 05, 2005

Not Everyone Calls it a Cup

Remember, Sunday Midnight… entries to karnival.kidz (at) gmail (dot) com. This post contains my entry!

This is not from my blog archives. Before I started my blog, I would write things that occurred in my life, and e-mail them to family and friends. I have them all saved. Archived. I pull them out sometimes. I’ve posted one or two here and will continue to so. An example of posts I’ve written from e-mails I’ve sent to my friends are my entire series of the rat in my car, in order. Part I, PartII, PartIII, PartIV, and PartV for those who are new readers.

Anyway, I was over at Anita’s of Fighting Inertia and she had this funny frickin’ post on her son and baseball and his ‘cup’. I was glad to see I am not the only other Mom that is stunned by ‘cup talk’. I’m telling you, it was a shocker to me. As Anita put it in her post, “I ask you. I don't remember yelling out to my girlfriends, "Hey, Susie, are you wearing your training bra today?" Funny post. Go take a read.

So this reminded me of this incident that happened two years ago and is my official entry to the Karnival of the Kids. You’ll find it in the Extended Entry. I originally called this, My Life with Three Boys. Other than names, it is unedited… it is exactly as I e-mailed it.

Here is my latest story. It has been awhile since some of you have heard from me. My life is still as chaotic as ever.

For those who knew me in High School, I think it is safe to say “prude” and “ice queen” come to mind. Before I start this story, you have to know that that has changed, as evidenced by the fact I actually found a man who would marry me, even if I did have to chase him down like a dog. However, one thing has not changed. I still believe that there are some things as a woman I just have no business having to contend with. Just as there are certain items I would never send my husband out to buy, there are certain male aspects of life I just as soon not deal with. “Too much information, please”, comes to mind. Men’s sports protection fits in this category. As luck would have it, I have been blessed with three boys, so no matter how much I fight knowing more than I want, it creeps upon me and suddenly I am knowledgeable in areas no woman should ever have to be acquainted with.

My two older boys are in Karate and they have a tournament this weekend. This tournament includes free sparring. They wear foam helmets and assorted protective gear. For the boys, cups are required. I have been aware of this for a few weeks and informed my ever loving husband, that this was without a doubt, a father’s area of expertise and I had neither inclination nor desire to be included in the ‘cup shopping’ or even the discussion of such. Also, let me state up front, that knowing full well that this would fall to me eventually, I had been discretely discussing my options with other mothers trying to figure out how they have handled it and what to do. To my dismay, a great announcement was made to the entire kid’s class one afternoon that “All boys must wear cups at this next tournament”. Expecting more discretion in this area than what was being provided, I found this to be uncomfortable, but realized I was now officially entering a new world, even if I was kicking and screaming the whole way.

Off my spouse went to Sports Authority, all three boys in tow, to buy this gear that I have never even seen before. Back he came… with the wrong size. It was not intentional and in retrospect, I do understand why this occurred. At the time, I was not amused. We now have one week until the tournament, my husband's schedule is heavy with clients, and the resolution to the cup buying fiasco has now fallen squarely upon my shoulders, as I had suspected would eventually happen.

My father, at this point, finds this whole situation exceedingly humorous and wants me to walk in with my small boys, walk up to the counter big as day and announce to the salesman, “I’ll take 2 large cups please”. I am not sharing in the humor.

I drop the two older boys off at the dojo for practice and take my 3 year old to a small sports shop down the street. Lesson Learned: Never take a verbal 3 year old with you to buy an item that you do not want discussed publicly. I walk in as if I know what I’m doing with the theory that if I look like I know what I’m doing, salespeople will not approach me… at all. We find the wall. It is full of cups. Different sizes, different makes, different colors, different materials. I have arrived in a foreign land and I do not speak the language. I am at a total loss. Bones looks at the big wall and instantly recognizes at what we are looking. Bones never talks. Bones only shouts. So says he, in his shout, “Mom! Look! Weenie protectors!” I am mortified. From where did this name come and why must we discuss it? I quietly said, “Yup.” He shouts again, “Mom. We have weenie protectors. Two of them. We don’t need any more weenie protectors”. I am looking for a hole to crawl in at this point and I have quietly started my new mantra, “I do not belong here, I do not belong here, I do not belong here.” I’m looking at them and the look of knowing what I’m doing has evidently disappeared and has been replaced by a look of bewilderment as I am now being approached by one of two salesmen in the store. He asks if he can help me, I take a big breath, and proceed to act like I do this every day and by the way, yes I do need your help.

I get a course in cup buying. I am now looking at the different brands and those that come with underwear vs. those that don’t. It is clearly more education than I desired, but I was on a mission that must be completed. Meanwhile, my three year old is at my legs, mumbling something repeatedly about weenie protectors. I take on the attitude that if I can’t hear him, the salesman can’t either. The salesman has pulled out all these articles of ‘clothing’ at this point and is explaining to me what I need. He has taken them out of the packages and placed them in my hands as he is sorting through them. I am dying a slow silent painful death.

The salesman and I are finally finished. Bones, however, is not. He looks up at me with his round face and quietly says, “Mom, maybe you should buy 3 of these. You know, Son#1 needs one too.” This child actually expects that one of these is for him, after all, why should he be left out? I look at him and reply, “These are for Son#2 and Son#1. I only need two.” Holy Hell broke loose. Suddenly I have a three year old, screaming like a banshee, “I want a weenie protector too! It’s not fair! Why do they get weenie protectors, but I don’t?!!! It’s not fair Mom.” I somehow get him quieted as I pay and leave. I am not going back there. Ever.

Posted by Boudicca at May 5, 2005 10:18 PM

Sometimes your posts are like birth control. I'm not good with being embarassed!

Haha, just remember payback is hell. You can show up to Bones' school in whatever you want!

Posted by: Sissy at May 5, 2005 10:59 PM

Embarassed over cups? It's a piece of sports equipment. It's not like you had to buy incontinence pads for a 500 pound man and have to ask help for that. If I can go to a store and buy feminine hygene products, then you can buy jock straps!

Posted by: Contagion at May 6, 2005 10:59 AM

Well, no one I know calls it an aardvark...


But a "weenie protector," now, that'd be good to have at a ball game. I'll never go to another ball game without something to protect my Ballpark Frank from getting knocked around. ((Gee, I really didn't need that advertising slogan going through my head associated with "weenie protector")

Posted by: David at May 6, 2005 03:22 PM

Bwahhhhh!!! I'm cracking up.

Bou, I too have relegated cup shopping to my spouse, but should he ever fall down on the job, I can't think of a thing that the Internet is not more perfect for than shopping for a jock strap.

So what if it costs $10 to ship a $10 item? It will be well worth it.


Posted by: Anita at May 7, 2005 04:02 PM

Bou, here's the time blogpatriarch Harvey leaves town for a while go to the comment party. While all the girls are distracted by the Marines and firemen, sneak into his closet and conceal one of his ball gags in your purse. The guys won't notice, they'll be too busy drinking and waiting for the Marines and firemen to leave, hoping there'll be some leftovers. Then the next time you have to take Bones someplace you'll be able to keep him, if not quiet, at least unintelligable. Mmmph. On second thought, better grab one of those leather hoods, too.

Posted by: Peter at May 8, 2005 08:15 PM