Even though our weather is in the 80's and it's June and gardens are blooming (not mine, I can't grow anything outside of a pot. A pot. Important A there. I do not grow marijuana in my spare time.) and pools are open and summer has begun, my children are in school until July. But my best friend's children (who happen to be my children's best friends) got out yesterday. In honor of this splendid occasion, she invited us to the pool at their clubhouse for an afternoon swim.
It should be said that the seven-year-old and the eight-year-old swam pretty much non stop for nearly two hours. This story is not about them.
The nine-year-old and the ten-year-old did not. This is because Garrett, the nine-year-old, decided to hurt his leg at school. He was dramatically limping and complaining about how terribly his wounded leg hurt. I was growing increasingly concerned because my child does not miss an opportunity to play in the pool. Yet, there he was, lying on the deck, being surly and emotional. I should point out that, later in the day, after an Ibuprofen and some ice, he rallied and it looks like he'll live after all.
The ten-year-old, hers, as I do not yet have one, was acting like a teenage girl with PMS. I'm not judging. My older child often displays the same behavior. He was getting worked up over every little thing the baby brothers were doing and it finally landed him in a time out chair. There they sat, the best friends, the boys who have been involved in an intense bromance since they were three, lumps on the pool deck.
Eventually, when their hormonal and/or injured moping became too much for us, we pulled out all the stops. I called Garrett up onto my lounge chair and began rubbing his muscle, which, it turns out, was probably just sore from track practice. His best buddy sat on the end of his mom's chair. He was a grump. I tried to make him laugh. Nothing. We teased them about growing up to be Felix and Oscar where they would live together forever in their bachelor pad until they decided to get married. And then, they must find girls who would not mind spending their lifetimes living in an apartment with the other boy and his wife.
Finally, we asked the ten-year-old if he had PMS. He shot us a death--but curious--look. "What's that?"
I scrambled. "Um. Pre. Macho. Syndrome."
Garrett looked at us, blinking.
"But what is it really?" the ten-year-old asked.
My friend scrambled. She mumbled something about when girls are grumpy.
"But never tell a girl she has PMS," she finished.
Words of wisdom to my almost preteen son. NEVER TELL A GIRL SHE HAS PMS. But, apparently, we can tease our sons that they do.