You Have Your Mother to Thank for the Type of Man You Will Become
To my young son:
You don't realize it now, but you're a boob guy—
You are all about boobs—
And rightfully so,
For that is your sole sustenance.
That could all change someday though;
You might become a butt guy,
Or a legs guy;
But for now, go on and enjoy what you are:
A boob guy—
An infant whose nourishment comes from the breast.
Someday, years from now, although you'll shudder to think too much on it,
You really should try to find a way to thank your mother.
There will be hundreds of things she'll do for you,
And for many of those, thank her you will.
But for this one thing that is so central to your existence right now,
This dependence, this—addiction—
Oh, it's totally okay, no, don't cry, don't worry—
As I said, rightfully so—
But looking at the toll it takes on a mother!
You really need to come up with some genuine expression of gratitude;
Really, you must.
And though I am your father,
And I should encourage and guide you,
I don't imagine I will have many suggestions.
After all, if it had been me, I probably would have just gone the formula route—
Cowardly and pathetic, selfish soul I would have been.
But this is between you and your mother,
And so it needs to be something good.
Like, real good—
Like, sacrificial kind of good.
And so I'm afraid any ideas of my own will fall short
In trying to capture the essence of this thing you two share.
However, as I sit here and watch the subtle rise of your stomach
Beneath the bevy of doves cruising in circles on your ceiling,
I believe I do have an idea or two;
And I will try to think of more ideas throughout the years as you get older,
But really, this is your job—
After all, you're the boob guy.
Maybe a card with a well-versed, sentimental message—
One of those artsy kinds they sell now,
With braided paper string tied in a tiny little bow.
A heavy card, pressed modern-day papyrus,
With writing on both flaps inside—
Those are the really meaningful ones, remember—
With writing on both sides.
Let me suggest the kind that comes sleeved
In a clear cellophane wrapper over the front,
With instructions to "Remove wrapper,"
Though I don't know if they mean the card-writer or the card-receiver.
Perhaps one with some bit of recycled paper-mash-bas-relief,
Like a two-dimensional bluebird on a dogwood branch,
Or a honeybee suspended over a daffodil.
Of course, by the time you're out shopping,
You might be able to create one online by clicking and dragging clipart images:
Like a baby kangaroo nestled in its mother's pouch,
A little joey, nursing while he drifts off to sleep,
Like you often do.
Or perhaps, if a card seems too quaint,
Too laissez-faire for your style at that point in your near-grown-up life,
You might consider a more practical gift,
One with a deeper meaning,
More apropos and fitting.
I'll let you take the car to the mall one night,
And you can venture into a certain store
Where you'll be greeted by an angel—
A beautiful young girl about your age—
Who, somewhat timidly at the moment,
But owing to her duty as an employee,
Will ask if she can help you find something,
Help you pick out the perfect gift.
Abashedly, you will agree,
Subconsciously obeying the call of hormones,
Scared at what she may soon find out,
But even more terrified at not getting to talk to her longer.
And while your heart pounds through your feet as you trail her through the store—
You, now, a butt guy,
Or a legs guy,
Or still—somehow—
A boob guy—
She'll turn and ask who it is you're shopping for.
In that moment you'll detect—
No, hope for—
A note of jealousy?
No, of course not—
She works here, after all.
A slight note of wishing, like you,
That perhaps if the planets align for you both,
You might come here on a day that she doesn't work to shop for her.
At least that is your heart's secret,
Which fights to be let out and announced to her,
If by no other means than by the betrayal of your eyes.
"Who are you shopping for?" she'll ask.
A question laden with longing—
At least you hope—
As her eyes meet yours.
And while walking, she'll look back over her shoulder,
To hear and see your answer.
And you'll notice how her hair flips in a playful way,
What seems to you a sensual way.
And as you consider your answer and follow her,
You'll glance up at a creepy figure
And contrast the blank-eyed stare-down of a
Scantily-clad Victoria's Secret mannequin
With the young lady in front of you
Whose eyes have melted your heart in merely a matter of minutes.
And because you imbibed mother's traits,
And she's always believed instinctually
That honesty is the best policy,
You will simply hope for the best outcome when you tell this employee the truth.
"Who am I shopping for?"
You will say to this goddess
Who goes to another school but is probably in the same grade as you—
Which is why you've never seen her until this evening—
That you've come here tonight
To buy a bra
For your mother.
