Mama's Boy

Today one of my friends was talking about her husband.  She said to me, “well, yeah, I asked him to do that.  But, he would never.  His mom would be so mad.”  What?  Dude, you are over thirty years old, who cares what your moms thinks? And then, I got to thinking.  I mean we have all seen some guys, known some guys, and dated some guys who are just way too close to their moms.  You know what I mean.  The ones who as grown adults still need their mother’s approval for everything.  The one’s whose mothers run their entire lives, and they see nothing wrong with it.  The one’s whose mothers are still giving them lots of kisses on the lips, extra-long hugs, whatever. I had always looked at these guys, and their moms, and thought---come on, get off it.  Move on.  Grow up.  This is weird, and creepy, and gross, and I don’t feel safe.  Get some boundaries for Christ’s sake.  And then, I had Rex.

Poor Rex, and poor Rocky.  Sure to be the two biggest mama’s boys on the face of the earth if I have anything to say about it.  And oh man, whatever girls, guys, whatever---end up marrying these dudes, God bless them!  Because all the little weird things that I used to think made a mother and son too close---I eat that shit for breakfast.  And I know it.  Like, I logically know that I would hate myself, but for some reason I don’t care.  I know that (come with me into weird land for a second) if I dated one of the Rs and I was my own mother-in-law, I would want to kill me. I would actually want to punch me in the face, and then tell myself how crazy I think I am, and then I would kill me.  Twice.

Sometimes I think that I am just this weird now because they are so little.  I mean, c’mon, every mom with a two year old boy spends hours sniffing their feet, smelling their breath, and trying to open mouth kiss them. Kidding! (I have to say that). I tell myself that at some point, it won’t feel appropriate to snuggle them all day, kiss them all over their faces when I am excited, or pinch their butt cheeks when they gets out of the tub.  But then I think, when will that happen?  Like, at what point am I supposed to one day just be like---well, I’m not gunna do that anymore!

Like, Matt thinks that I should have stopped biting Rex’s fingernails when he turned, I dunno, two months old.  I catch him shooting me death stares when I do it.  Once he even brought me over the clippers and I just shrugged him off.  Doesn’t he understand that I want to eat these boys all day and this is the closest thing I can do to doing that?  And when (please don’t say yesterday) does this become inappropriate?  Like, you-really-need-to-stop-right-now kind of inappropriate? My answer to myself, NEVER. I’m his mom and I will bite his fingernails if I want to. So guess what future prom date, while you are off getting your mani pedi, 6’2 Rexxy will be getting his fingernails bit off by Mommy before the big night.  No.  It’s not true.  He will never let me.  Will he?

Maybe life just happens and gradually I will start giving them one less kiss on the face a day and then all of a sudden they will be teenagers and will barely be giving me a kiss goodnight?  NO! I can’t. I won’t.  And I can already see how weird I am going to be.  Kisses will be given before, after, and maybe even during their football games.  Before and after school and all day on weekends and on Tuesday afternoons.  I birthed these fuckers.  Whenever I want to, until the end of time, I am going to grab their huge weird heads and kiss their faces.  And maybe I will tickle them too and get them to laugh really hard.  And it will be totally uncomfortable for spectators, and they will be much larger than me (I hope) so the site of it will be really unsettling, but I don’t give a you know what.  I want them to care what I think, ask my opinion on everything, live within a single mile of me, and call me three times a day.  Some would call it excessive and unhealthy, I think it would be perfect.

So you would think that I would now have a better tolerance for all those weird mother-son relationships that skeeved me out before I had kids.  I don’t. At all.  I know, it makes no sense.  I am able to see the rest of the world through a clear(ish) lens and can recognize inappropriate behaviors.  I think I have very (ehhhh—questionable word choice) appropriate boundaries in all the other relationships in my life.  There’s just something about shooting a little boy outta your vagina.  I’m serious.  Carrying these little wackos for over nine months, pushing them out and having them placed on your chest all helpless and new as they enter the world, feeding them, bathing them, being covered in their poop and pee and everything else, and loving their faces and ears and noses and toes and gapped teeth all day long---and then being asked to slowly let go and let them be independent.  It’s too much.  It is just too much to ask.

So, for now I am just going to expect the worst for the three of us.  When they come home from college I will be pulling off their size 15 Jordan shoes and sniffing their nasty athlete’s foot ridden toes.  When they come over with their families on Thanksgiving I will lift up their XXL shirts and I will give them raspberries on their hairy stomachs as their wives text each other that I need therapy.  But I won’t get mad when I overhear them telling Rex and Rocky that I am whacked.  Because I am.  And because I know that even though they will never change their minds about me, some day if they have a little asshole of their own, they will be puke sniffing, face licking, nail biting, and lip kissing right along with me.