Of Cups and Jockstraps (or the Strangest Conversation I've Had With My Son)

Our Saturday morning started out like this.

No, we weren't talking about a backpack, or a shoe, or anything else that's top of mind when you think about what you cram yourself into. We're talking about my son's first jockstrap — or, more accurately, his third one, because the whining and screaming here pales in comparison to what we heard the first two times we tried this.

I knew this day would come. I just didn't think it would come in third grade. But when the little league commissioner blasted parents with an email about protection — chest and groin — I immediately sent my husband and son to the local sports store to purchase a cup and chest protector. Sure there was some grumbling (on both parts), but they came home with a boxer brief with a slot for a cup (and a size-large cup), and I thought we were on the way to little league success. The cup became a joke around the house until the first game of the season, when he went to put it on and all I heard was screaming coming out of his bedroom.

This went on for about an hour with tears and a few thrown baseball gloves before we got him on the ball field. Every boy in the outfield looked a bit more "manly" than they had at batting practice earlier that week, and they spent the entire game "adjusting themselves" and walking, well, a little zombie-like. My son wobbled off the field with a pained look on his face that didn't leave until he was in the car and the cup came out.

This time I went to the store myself. If you thought bra shopping was confusing, you haven't walked up to a wall of family-jewels protectors. I pulled down every cup, jockstrap, and boxer brief I could find only to be met with strange numbers — 29-33-34. Did they really want me to measure my son's penis? Who are these people?! After a short — and mortifying — conversation with the teenage boy charged with running the department (I made it short; I couldn't stand there any longer), I discovered the numbers referred to my son's waist size, and the cups came in small, medium, and large. I went home with an array of products ready to tackle this beast the best way I knew how. It was then that I had the strangest (and funniest) conversation I've had with my son in my nine years of parenting.

Fast-forward to game number two, and we went through the outburst above before he walked onto the field. It was better this time — at least the pained look was gone from his face. But it wasn't perfect. I don't think it will ever be. He just needs to get used to it.

Now, instead of whining and complaining about "the device," I'm finding myself uttering words and phrases I never thought I'd find coming out of my mouth.

That last one is because the team likes to go pee in the river between innings, and I don't think my son has any clue how to do it without getting his cup sopping wet. I call this #momsofsonsproblems.