Cha-Ching

Football season is upon us, bringing to mind all the joys of the late afternoon light in the fall, the sight of little boys learning to be men, and the never ending sound of the cash register at Dick’s Sporting Goods. It’d thought, originally, I’d gotten off lightly this year - we were given all the equipment we needed, save for cleats (bought them for baseball, and they still fit - thank God), a cup (evidently his cup was “all up in his goods”) and a practice jersey.

Really, and idiot can shop for these. A single mom who has no clue can shop for these things - I would know, I did it last year. Sure, I put the cup in upside down the first time; (and, ahem, the second and third times) I’ve managed to screw up which are the thigh pads and which are the knee pads, but I’m one of the only moms who got all of the mud and grass stains out of his pants. After every game.

This year, seeing as how I assumed I’d only need a cup, I figured, I’d gotten off lightly - maybe a total outlay of twenty dollars. A measly twenty dollars at Dick’s - my goodness! perhaps, then, I should buy something for myself, seeing as how I’m used to dropping the same amount of money in Dick’s as I am in Target, and they’re known as the Hundred Dollar Stores. In my head, I’ve planned the cutie little golf skirts (that are also on sale!) the argyle sweater I’ve been eyeing since it came out, and if you add in the coupon I had? The cup is practically free.

Hmm. Maybe it’s the skirt that was practically free, since I went in there to buy the cup in the first place.

So this morning, while I’m doing the Walk The Dog, Feed The Dog, Yell At The Dog And Child Routine, I ask Fox to go upstairs and grab his football bag. The enormous one. He decides to throw it over the landing - on the side near the hanging chandelier.

ARE YOU NUTS?! I yelled, yes, my Inner Mommy Ugly Voice appeared, as the light swung in a rather delicate arc, between three walls, while the bag essentially dripped onto the floor in agonizing slow motion.

His response? I’ve always said that light was ugly. OH. My. GOD.

Deep breath, and a couple huffy breaths later, along with a fair amount of swearing under my breath later, we’re all packed up to go. I reach to throw in the cleats - only to be told, they’re too little. The practice jersey from last year? The small? Nope, Coach says he needs a large. And a medium cup. And new socks, as his have a hole in them.

I take my lunch hour, and frantically fly down to Sports Athourity - which in my opinion? They were not. Yes, the gentleman that greeted me was enormously helpful; he led me right through all the football stuff, lamenting for me, that only the more expensive brands were left. (Add grinding of teeth here)…oh, boy, they’re all picked over. I should have come earlier. I should have sent his father. (I refrained from commenting here, but the voices in my head sure had plenty to say on that subject) He wanted to know how big my little guy was - so I held up my hand, you know, yay high? And he says, no, lady (don’t call me lady, it’s rude, it’s a cartoon dog for heaven’s sake!) I mean, how big are his boys? How much of a handful?

He’s seven. I’m not about to go wandering in during shower time and adjust them for him, so I can get a feeling for how they fill a hand! And you know what? I don’t want to know if Fox is hanging out in the shower testing size and weight in his palms either! Aren’t there some sort of guidelines for this sort of thing? In the back of my mind, all I can think is that the words average, or about this big, with a finger measurement, are the absolute wrong things to say - but then, so is, he’s really hung, or, uh, he’s really out of proportion feel unseemly as well. I don’t really feel I should be discussing my sons balls with anyone, let alone a stranger - but then, that begs the question: do I discuss his “goods” with my girlfriends who have sons?

I’m pleading the fifth.

I should have gone to Dick’s, I should have driven out there, and taken my coupons, gotten my Dick’s points, and my extra points, for purchasing football related items. They may not have had a better selection, but I suppose, I’m more comfortable when I know the guys that laugh at me in the store; and they laugh with me, not at me. They encourage me to bring Fox with me, so they can help me out - and not in that decidedly judgemental way that says I don’t know my own child. I do.

Thus, here I am, back in the office, a whopping sixty dollars poorer, having only purchased a cup and a jersey. I’ve still socks and cleats to go….not to mention raffles, and fundraisers, not to mention the sheer volume of Gatorade this kid takes down.

Soon, I’ll have emptied my wallet, praying to the Great Football Gods at Dick’s Sporting Goods, and all I’ll have to show for it is a football bag that took out my light filled with stuff that smells so badly I have to leave it in the garage so it doesn’t take the finish off the floor. I’ll pile into the stands with the other moms, sporting last year’s sweaters and jacket, realizing that in nearly all the football photos, I’m wearing the same things - the only way to tell the years apart is the how tall Fox is. I’ll sit with moms who have holes in their socks too, with red noses from the cold, mittened hands clutching hot cocoa against the early morning chill, and at some point, it’ll hit me:

I’m so glad my son didn’t take up hockey