Detachable Genitalia
Be forewarned if you ever come to dinner at the Postmaster house you are likely to get schooled. At the very least entertained. Possibly shocked. The following took place recently at the dinner table:
Our 17 year old son was filling us all in about his plans to go play ice soccer with the high school youth group. He plays AYSO soccer on a grass field, so I wondered aloud what ice had to do with soccer. “We will be playing indoors at the ice rink” he mentioned casually. Pass the bread please. “Will there be girls there?”,I query. “Yea Dad, everyone in the church group is invited, girls too”.
“Girls are going to get out on the ice and crash into boys on purpose ?”
No further explanation is apparently coming from my usually tight-lipped son. Friendly he is, but sparse of words. “Butter?”
I press on:”I have played broom-hockey at the rink, but never ice-soccer: Are you sure about what’s going on?”
“Sure I’m sure. Actually, some girl broke her wrist last time we played. It’s fun.” Nice.
By now the mother hen antennae are focused tightly on our conversation. She seems to be flashing THE LOOK my direction. THE LOOK can mean many things depending on the situation, but it is sure to evoke the flight-or-flight response in me. After a brief mental Chinese fire drill I (rightly) guess that the Mom has done a quick sum: testosterone+girl sweaters+feats of athletic stupidity+broken bones=Dad you better do something about this. Now. “Uhhhhhhhhh . . .”
Did I mention that the antennae double as a death ray?
“Maybe you ought to wear some really thick clothes to protect yourself. Try my hunting jacket. And see if you can put a pillow in your pants to protect your butt.” I knew it was totally not the advice the mother was expecting from me but, hey, it did sound like fun and she knows that THE LOOK addles my brain . . .
I hear the unmistakable sound of the death-ray warmup.
His older brother, ever alert to an instigation opportunity pipes in (saving his dad’s butt); “Maybe you ought to put that pillow in the front of your pants. To protect your package”.
Howls of laughter spew from Ryan, our 7 year old. Just saying the word package brings joy to his life. “Package!!! BwaHaaHaaaaa Haaaaaaa!” Bright eyes await whatever comment will follow. He knows boy-instinctively that this conversation is going in the toilet and he’s ready to jump in.
“Your brother is right about the pillow in front. Might want to see if it would wrap all the way underneath to protect the jewels in case you do the splits on the ice”, I add.
The daughter, poor thing, just smiles demurely but takes it all in. Having 3 brothers has got to be a warping factor in her life. We pray for her.
Putting her death ray away and hoping to somehow mitigate the onslaught of genitalia jokes that is visibly building up around the table, the Mom chimes in with, “Michael maybe you could borrow one of dad’s jockstraps from when he had his vasectomy. Wouldn’t that help protect things?”
Silence fell upon the dinner table at that moment. Not because Mom spoke of my fixin’. No, my package has been the topic of conversation ever since the fix got done earlier this year. Nothing hidden here- everyone knows what was done and why. (Still, months later, the boys will inquire, “How’s it healin’, Dad?”). Silence fell because mom said jockstrap. It is a funny word of itself, but misused it caused pause.
“Perhaps you mean cup ?” “Besides, men wouldn’t share a strap. That’s just wrong. Would you borrow a bra from another lady?“ “More iced tea?”
The dam broke. In less than a minute we had mentioned most of the funnest human body parts. One thing that ladies need to understand is that boys and men like to talk about our junk. It’s just fun and we never outgrow it. We think it is an endearing trait.
The boys got on a roll . . .
“A cup???? I need a bowl !!!” “Wouldn’t that be so funny to show up at the rink with a bucket in the front of your pants !?” “Yea and the girls could wear buckets on their chests to protect those !”
This silliness went on for a bit of time until we had pretty much said all of the “clean” euphamisms for reproductive parts and pieces. Then one of us said “Wouldn’t it be great if we could just take our package off before we did some sport that might damage it?”
“Great idea! Just click it off and put it in a drawer. Go play your baseball or wresting. Click it back on when your done. Might make it easier to keep clean, too.”
“I don’t know how you guys put up with that stuff flopping around when you walk or run. It seems so uncomfortable.”
“What if someone stole it while you were gone?”
“I suppose you could go to the package store and buy a replacement.”
“Would I be able to choose the size?”
“Sure . . . There would be: small, medium, large and extra-large.”
“What guy is going to ask for anything but XXL?”
“Good point. XXL would soon become new small”. “Would breasts be detachable, too?” The wife chimed in.
“Absolutely. When they get a little saggy you could just trade them in for something firmer.”
”What size should I trade mine in for? I am a little lower than when we first married . . .” (An obvious test).
“Keep the ones you got. They’ve been good to me.” (Test passed).
“I would go smaller.”
The Mom gets a bright idea: “Maybe you guys could leave your parts at home when you go out on dates. You know, just click ‘em off and hand them over to your parents as you leave. Wouldn’t that make staying out of trouble a lot easier?”
“That might be a bit awkward, Mom. I just can’t see me handing my johnson to you before I go on a date. That would just be not right.”
“As not right as becoming a dad before you are ready? Seriously, those parts of yours get kids into so much trouble. I wish they really were detachable. I would give them to your spouse as a wedding present right after you “kiss the bride.”
“That would be an interesting ceremony, to say the least.”
“I am liking this idea more and more,” I quip. “ If I were God for a day this is the one thing I would do for humanity. Can’t you see how messed up many of us allow our lives to get just because we can’t maintain control of our urges?”
Anyway, the conversation went on for a bit longer and we did get a chance to throw in another plug for purity. You can’t say it often enough. We might be a little more educated now, too, depending upon how you define it.
I hope this glimpse into the insanity that often prevails at the Postmaster household wasn’t TMI. Truthfully, I am not sure why I shared this, except that it is Friday and I am loosening up for the weekend.
Blessings
Tags: communication, fatherhood, goofiness
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