So last night I had to get underwear for my son, which was awkward, cuz he's 13.
"Bob the Builder?" I asked him, jokingly. He offered a tense laugh and then replied no thanks, but boxers, not briefs, if you don't mind.
"Oh," I said, feeling a little taken aback. "Why? Whats the difference?"
"There's a difference," he said. "Everyone else wears boxers."
"Oh," I said, again feeling taken aback. "But who sees your underwear anyways?"
"Mom," he implored. "That's not the point. Boxers are cool and briefs aren't."
"Well," I said. "I just don't see how they could support your-" my voice trailed off as I made a cupping motion with my hand. "Your sausage and eggs," I concluded.
"Mom! Really!" he said, now sounding kind of annoyed for some reason. Teenagers, I guess.
"Actually," my husband said. "Boxers are better. Wearing constricting underwear can lower your sperm count."
"Oh really?" I asked. "And we shoddily be concerned about his sperm count? When he's THIRTEEN!!"
"Well, I'm just saying..." my husband said.
"Fine," I said, "I'll get the boxers."
It felt the marking of some invisible line in the sand. From boy to man.
In other news, finally we are all packed for Mexico, thanks in no part to my husband.
Last night, while having my head in the fridge, sweating and swearing and scrubbing off a bottle of sweet and sour sauce that had apparently spilled at some point, after having already scrubbed the floors and the toilets, my husband was tackling the very serious chore of cleaning out the junk drawer in search of a peg for his crib board.
"Do you really think you'll need a crib board in Mexico?" I asked, annoyed, both at the congealed pool of sauce- because who does that? Spills a bottle of sauce and then just leaves it to congeal??- and at my husband, who simultaneously was annoyed with the state of the junk drawer. He threw a cook book in the garbage, with an exasperated sigh.
"Hey that's my cookbook," I told him, pulling it out of the garbage.
"Well when have you ever used it?"
I looked at it. "Easy Casseroles" it said on the cover with a picture of a deep brown dish that seemed to have hotdogs poking out of some kind of pasta, or maybe beans. It was hard to tell. It resembled something the dog puked up after getting into a package of sausage.
"Well," I said, hesitating. "You never really know," although ya, okay, he was probably right. I probably wasn't going to be cooking up a hotdog casserole anytime soon.
But anyways. That's not the point. The point is that of all the cleaning and scrubbing and laundry that had to be done- my husband picks these two chores to focus intently on:
-vacuuming out under our bed and washing the dust ruffle
-organizing the junk drawer
And not only did he focus on them, he complained about these like these were the heaviest, hardest, and most necessary chores. Like I should be thankful to him, because in the event of visiting dignitaries ending up on our bedroom floor for some reason and looking under our bed, he would save us a load of embarrassment. Because apparently I wouldn't believe what was under there!
But I don't care about that.
Because tomorrow we leave!
PS- I gained back the four pounds I lost.
PSS- I really don't care about that anymore, either.