Just a three-and-a-half foot Sack O’ Potential.
Those of you not-so-new (but every bit as sparkly!) readers will recall that my youngest son toes that very delicate line drawn between being an absolutely stunning genius and being a fella who drools on himself and has permanent Cheeto stains on his fingertips.
Maxim and I have moments where we fleetingly touch on this; mostly this is when he does something so appallingly strange that even we can’t easily stomach it. For the record, at these times we mimic the interaction between Steve Martin and Mary Steenburgen in ‘Parenthood‘ when they are discussing their bucket-wearing youngest and his future on the planet. Steve shouts something akin to
“I blame this on you!
You smoked all that POT!”
while shaking a finger –loaded with righteous indignation– at her. Only between me and Maxim, I play Steve Martin’s role and I substitute the phrase ’smoked all that POT’ with ‘dropped all that ACID’.
But Mathias is lanky and pretty, so he could make either one work. You know, like Jim Morrison before the whole Miami debacle.
He’s really, really fortunate to have gotten Maxim and me as parents, because we are both creative-exploration kinda peeps and not easily rattled. That, or so far in denial so as to render the whole issue invalid. Just as long as our kid doesn’t incorporate butcher knives, dildos and bloody sheep’s innards as props in his ‘performance art’ we just kind of roll with things.
Which is why, two weeks ago, when we were in the middle of Wal-Mart (yes, we do indeed–collectively– spend more time there than the employees) and Mathias began exuberantly cheering me, Sam and Scout in turns
“Mommy can do it,
YAAAAAAY, MOMMY!”
I was unruffled. He was doing jumps and kicks and stick-arms and jazz hands and landing on one knee, as well. What can I say, the boy is dedicated to his craft, whatever it may be at the given moment.
After a time, it grew boring for him what with only having three people to rah-rah to victory. He began cheering everyone that passed us: Little old ladies (“Memaws! *clap* Are! *clap* Great! *clap*”), other kids (“You can do-it-do-it-do-it, play with that toy, WOO!”) and employees (“AY! BEE! CUE! ELL! Count, count, COUNT your moneys!” Oh well, the kid can’t spell for shit yet. Let’s hope that’s a passing trend) alike. I bore all of this smilingly but with eyes averted. Some of the Random Public were enjoying it, after all. Plus, the kid was being genuinely enthusiastic. I ask you: Who the hell doesn’t need a cheerleader on a random, ass-dragging Tuesday afternoon?
He unexpectedly stopped all this when we hit the doors to head outside. Putting his hand dutifully on the basket as he has been taught in parking lot situations, weaving his fingers amidst the wires so as not to inadvertantly succumb to the five-year-old whimsy of running off, he looked up at me and said, “Mommy, I believe I’ll be a cheerleaderboy.”
I’m the cool mom, right? I am unruffled by this admission. Works for me! Besides, he canna truly help it, as he has a proud line of cheerleadery genes in our family history to glance back upon. Cheerleaderboy it is. It beats being a box or a cat or a weaf. Or any of the other nine-hundred things he has been in years previous.
A few days later, at a gathering of Maxim’s family, I goosed Mathias and said, “Go over there and tell your Uncle Scott what you want to be.”
Scott is really Maxim’s uncle and Mathias’ great, but he is a mere ten years older than us and has a (whiny, simpering, over-momma’ed, pusbag of a) son one year younger than our wee Mathias, so he’s more a peer than anything else.
“Uncle Scott,” Mathias said, “I want to be a cheerleaderboy!”
Scott got a fleeting look of disgust across his face, smiled kindly down at Mathias, patted him on the head with an exceptionally competent, meaty hand and said, “AWWWW, you’ll grow outta that, boy.” Then something about shoulder pads and cleats was mentioned.
Look, I’ve already tried to turn the kid out onta the gridiron. The boy ain’t having none-a that. It breaks my Southern-Momma heart, but I’ll never let on to Mathias. I will carry my grief close to me like the Wonderful Mothertm I can truly be, and thusly Mathias will be spared the knowledge that I hung my entire extended family’s hopes on him that Uncle Romey and Cousin Jerry would not be the last pro and college ballplayers in the family. I mean, Sam’s naturally gifted, but he’s lazy and I gave up that idea with regard to him long ago. My only purpose at the games was to shlep drinks and yell like an idiot for my kid; it was not to quietly, fervently pray that there was a scout in the stands…a scout that starts rooting through the farm teams when they are prepubescent and their families still call them ‘Bubba’ instead of their Christian names.
But I was okay with that, because I magically produced another boy-child from mine loins.
Wait, wherethefuck were we?
Oh yessss, family gathering. Hella rad but marginally disgusted uncle. I laughed in Scotty’s face after he’d said what he said.
“You’re kidding, right? My kid is wicked-smart. He gets to be on the sidelines, immersed in bouncy, in-their-physical-prime pretty women, his solid, long-fingered hands on their (second- or third most desired parts of their anatomy) delicate inner thighs, a.k.a. Legitimately All Up In Their Junk. Cheerleaders get the same scholarships as ballplayers. Plus, he won’t have blown out his knees and back by the time he’s twenty-eight. WOO!
“You should be encouraging that shit, Scott.”
The room was pretty silent by that point, until Auntie Brosh let fly a cackle and said, “I believe we all need more WINE!”
So yeah, Mathias: Heh, no wonder.