and here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson

shapeimage_2-7_4Have you seen the bathing suits that boys wear for swim team these days?  Gone are the skimpy speedos.  They’ve been replaced by a longer, spandex, biker short.  For mothers who rarely get to see their sons’ butts anymore, with the baggy cargos, board shorts, soccer shorts, etc., watching them run around in these little numbers is equal parts hilarious and swoon-worthy.  The first time Saint James walked out in his little royal blue swimsuit, I was floored.  At seven, he has lost every iota of his baby fat and has taken on the frame of a . . . of a . . .  guy.  As he walked away toward the pool I marveled at his broad little shoulders, his long coltish legs and a couple of delicious buns.  Seriously, his buns are, dare I say it, PERFECT!  Who knew?  Yowza!  When did this happen?

I find myself watching as he and his buddies lounge in the sun after practice, warming up like lizards, talking about Warrior Cats, Pokemon, and other mysterious and magical boy things.  They are completely at ease in their dear little bodies, continuously shifting and moving as they chat, making karate chop motions and whooshing sounds – their scapulae, knees and elbows sharp and bony – their ribs rising and falling like the keys of a delicate and primitive instrument.  

Watching them, you sort of want to well up.  I need to be clear here before I get myself into trouble – it’s not a sexual thing at all. But it is a physical thing.  There is something between a mother and a son that is visceral – an attraction of gut, skin and bone.  With Saint James, my body wanted to hold him, yearned for the weight of him in my arms.  I wanted to bury my face in his neck and breathe.  I still do.  When he was a baby he used to rub his feet on my belly while he nursed, and that right there, is the definition of bliss.  And it’s not just me.  My friend talked about being taken aback by her boys’ “musculature,” her eyes widening with wonder as she described watching them wrestle with their dad.

It’s part love, part pride, and part good old fashion attraction. I think if you love men, you love boys.  You love their bodies and the potential that is alive and glimmering in those little frames.  (Query whether the corollary holds true – I know no man who would admit to the same sentiment about girls without feeling like he was stepping into dangerous terrain – which is sad.) 

Now if you will indulge me, I think I will go ahead and dip my toe into treacherous waters by putting aside the youngsters for a moment and moving on to a certain swim coach.  I’ll call him Swim Jim.  Let’s just put it out there.  He’s adorable.  Even more so because he’s a natural with the kiddies (future hot dad, for sure) and towers over them like a giant, chiseled Adonis.  Honestly, he had scarcely entered my radar until the other day.  Nanook and I were innocently standing by the baby pool, watching our girls, when all of a sudden, Swim Jim strides through the knee deep water taking a short cut to the big pool, sending water fanning everywhere while he adjusts the front tie to his trunks.  He pretty much flashed us the top of his pubes and more importantly, that low abdominal cut that goes right inside the hip down to . . . where ever.  Oh Lordy, someone hand me some smelling salts!  I’ll find out the name of that spot - you know what I’m talking about . . . Marky Mark . . . .  (Ten bucks says Doctor Dash will raise an eyebrow and shake his head at me trying to figure out what havoc I will wreak on this blog with this tidbit of information, before coughing it up.)  So there we stood, Nanook and I – left in Swim Jim’s wake, mouths agape, fanning ourselves, wondering whether he had done it on purpose, and feeling more than a little Mrs. Robinson, indeed.    


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