It was right around the time that The Boy was in fifth grade that he discovered rap.
You can imagine how exciting this was for me.
Rap in all its misogynistic, bling-oriented, looka-me-looka-me glory goes against everything I, as a Minnesota kinda gal, have been taught.
Mid-westerners don’t bring attention to themselves. It’s unseemly. It’s low-class. And frankly, it’s bragging.
You heard me. Bragging.
And bragging is just so tacky.
So you can imagine my horror the day The Boy lowered his trousers to the point that they weren’t doing the job they were designed to do.
To make it abundantly clear, there was now a good length of The Boy’s crack covered only by his boxers.
Something about this set off an inner imp in me. My eyes unfocused and the room went hazy as a slight smile passed over my face…
Do you know what a Wet Willie is?
I put my index finger in my mouth and got it wet. Creeping up behind him, I grabbed the waistband of his boxers and jammed my wet finger down the crack of his butt.
It’s fun to see The Boy jump.
“Gawwwwwwd, Mom!” he screamed, twisting away. “What are you doing?!”
“Wear your pants as they were intended to be worn or face my wrath!”
“That’s child abuse, Mom!”
“Wet Willie’s coming for you!”
And so began the cat-and-mouse game between me and The Boy. I would walk into a room; and if his pants were saggy, I would wink at him, put my index finger in my mouth and then advance on him slowly, my finger held up in front of me, smiling.
He would pull his pants up, nervously, every time I did this. “Cut it out! Cut it out!”
“Pull your pants up or face the Willie!”
One day, his friend Sean showed up.
They were in the kitchen, intent on eating the contents of the fridge, when I entered the room.
Sean’s pants were saggin’.
I couldn’t help but smile.
“Hey, “ I said. “Dylan.”
The Boy turned around; and a look of fearful, fascinated concern crept over his face. He held his hand up at me: No.
I put my index finger in my mouth, pulled it out, held it up in the air and walked toward Sean, whose back was toward me, in an exaggeratedly menacing manner. I reached toward Sean’s boxers…
I never did stick my wet finger down Sean’s butt crack, of course. But the threat scared The Boy into pulling his pants up from there on.
You gotta pick your battles.