It is a dreaded moment when my son steamrolls into my car after soccer practice because of what happens next: he takes off his cleats.
The carpet of my van is a lint brush for his grass-covered socks–bad enough on its own–b u t, the noxious vapor that escapes his shoes is almost visible. I don't even have to see what he's doing to know when they're off, my nose threatens mutiny from my body! If his foot odor could be bottled and sold, it would strip paint, kill weeds and disintegrate the funk in kitchen drains across America. We'd be rich.
A friend of his told him about a product that would at least help the lingering smell in his shoes, Sneaker Balls. We found them at a local shoe store, and for only a few bucks, I figured it was worth a try. Stephen thought they were really cool, so I knew I wouldn't have to remind him to use them, he'd remember on his own.
A few days later, our Sneaker Ball purchase far from my mind, Stephen said something that dropped my jaw and almost landed him on restriction til high school. It's important to know Stephen is an "innocent", at 12 still more boy than teenager.
"Hey, Mom…wanna smell my balls?"
With military precision I snapped around to face him, ready to jerk three knots in his head. Dancing eyes and eager, he extended an open hand with a pair of sneaker balls nestled in his palm.
Continuing, "Careful, they're really strong!"
Backing down from my stance and sniffing one of the balls, I wondered if he knew what I had initially "heard".
I couldn't decide if he mastered a perfect poker face or simply was clueless.
If it's possible for both, I think he nailed it…;)