A Random Image
 

Jett Superior laid this on you on || August 23, 2004 || 9:21 pm

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.

14 worked it out »

  1. CNL 8.24.2004

    It’s a wonder that after all that Wal-Mart cheerleading they [Wal-Mart] didn’t hire him on the spot… and then again, that’s probbly a good thing because you wouldn’t want him to waste his talent on his home turf – he should be sharing that globally, like his mom. Go forth and cheer, young man. :-)

     
  2. Wendolene 8.24.2004

    Not nearly the same thing, but your little cheerleaderboy cheering in Wal-Mart makes me think of my brother when he was little. As a child, he had absolutely no sense of inhibition. He would walk up to strollers and kiss babies, oblivious to the mother’s gasps. He would sprint down aisles in grocery stores. (it seemed he especially liked to do it if there was an impossibly fragile old person in said aisle) Once when we had to walk past a row of people to get to our seat at a ballpark, he stopped in front of one large man and said, “You are fat.”

    My mom has always told me that no matter what I do, I can’t embarrass her… she’s Jeffrey’s mother.

     
  3. Smedrock 8.24.2004

    OR, to put a bit of a damper on this. Besides the obvious benefit of a legit groping of said cheerleaders, he could, just by chance become … Richard Simmons! But I will not wish that upon any soul. Your kid is smart, he is starting the Ghandi thing early. Who knows, he may be our salvation, and keep him away from y daughter. LOL

     
  4. charles 8.24.2004

    I think your son rocks. When he discovers airplanes, you can nudge him away from flight-attendant towards pilot. The air conditioning is too cold here today. The cubicles are endless. My computer keeps crashing. Outside my window is a park filled with trees. I wish I was a weaf.

     
  5. jenni 8.24.2004

    Everyone in my building is looking at me right now *lol*…

    Thanks for the laugh!

    I needed that!

    And, heck yeah, who doesn’t need a cheerleader? Go, Mathias!!!

     
  6. V. 8.24.2004

    Once again you prove yourself to be a stellar mother.

    YAAAAAY Mommy! Indeed.

    I’d ask you to be my mommy, too, but that would add an incestuous element to my vague little crush.

     
  7. cal 8.24.2004

    bearing in mind that the kid is obviously incredibly creative…you may well have a future andy warhol, or [insert other fab creative person's name here] on your hands. then, you won’t even have to worry about the NFL, cuz mathias will be have it all down. natural talent – it’s a god-send!

     
  8. Jettomatika 8.24.2004

    That’s IT! If you people declare my kid a genius, it must be true!

    V: good to have you baa-aaack!

    Wendy: I very heart your brother.

    Smeddy: what’s your address? The Superiors are coming over for a barbeque and to hammer out the details of an arranged marriage.

     
  9. SmedRock 8.25.2004

    I only accept rental properties as dowery. Gotta look out for the wedding and living coss afterwards. But hey, if the BBQ is good enough, then we have a deal! LOL

     
  10. Jettomatika 8.25.2004

    Ohhh, honey…you’re sunk. I’m from Memphis, the home of fine barbeque and the real (Chicago be damned) home of the blues.

     
  11. melly 8.25.2004

    “She smoked grass!”

    And it was in reference to their eldest child, Kevin, having behavioral problems and being developmentally delayed.

    I have watched that movie TOO many times.

     
  12. redclay 8.25.2004

    wish the cheerleader boy thing had occurred to me.

    the worst part about bein raised right, when you promise not to tell, well.

    not even if it’s cheerleaders. first year of highschool, it hurts not to tell.

     
  13. MaC 8.26.2004

    you know… as a male gymnast, you’d think I’da realized that back in high school (the getting to cop cheap feels part), I just figured the stigma of being a male gymnast was enough. Besides, the energy I had in high school seemed dead set against anything with the word “school” in it. And “spirit” was right out.

     
  14. free hans 8.26.2004

    I remember back about 10 years ago, Chum had one of the first Wally Marts open up down the street from where he lived. He bought some form of electronic equipment there, and went on and on about it’s wonders. It was years before I went into a Wal Mart, now I hardly shop anywhere else! Anyway, as a fellow Wal Mart zombie, I thought you would enjoy this:

    Couple Meet, Court and Marry at Wal-Mart

    BOISE, Idaho (AP) — Somewhere between the junk food aisle and the automotive department, Pat Byrd and Bill Hughes fell in love.

    So it was only natural that they should marry where the magic happened — Wal-Mart.

    “It never dawned on me to have it anyplace else,” said the 55-year-old bride.

    Neither bride nor groom work at the discount store. Still, they spend more time there than many employees do, wandering the aisles and visiting friends for up to six hours a day, nearly every day since the store opened two years ago.

    “I talk to people and walk around for exercise, and we always buy a soda or a sandwich or something,” 51-year-old Hughes said. “If we’re not here, the store people worry about us. They’re our family.”

    Both Pat Byrd and Bill Hughes are disabled. They met nine years ago, when Bill was a patient at a North Idaho hospital and so was Pat’s sister.

    “He became a good friend, and when my sister died, we kept him in the family,” she said. “He doesn’t drive, and any time he went to Wal-Mart, I’d take him.”

    They celebrated their blooming love with a ceremony last Friday in Wal-Mart’s garden center. The store manager was a groomsman, and a fabric department employee was matron of honor.

    A garden center employee, Chuck Foruria, walked alongside Pat as she rode her motorized shopping cart down the makeshift aisle, her oxygen tank in the basket.

    “Who gives this woman in marriage?” asked Stacey Garza of the Free Will Church.

    “Her friends and family at Wal-Mart,” Foruria replied.

     

RSS feed for comments on this post.

(you know you want to)