I’ve mentioned probably way too many times that I have a sporty earthling that is crazy about football. I’ve told you all about his football fever, I’ve bragged about his winning, heck I’ve even claimed the life of a soccer mom. Well here goes yet another post about Gael and football. But before you think this will be ESPN-ly exhilaryawning this one is way better than the rest. I dare say even the best. I promise.
Gael trains one and a half hours twice a week and he is exhausted by the end of the day. I’m the last person to ask about sports but the drills and scrimmage seem pretty intense. Ninety minutes of training/cardio/exercise/aerobics/yoga I would think is a workout for an adult let alone a 6 year old. In the evenings, after he takes his shower, he is beat and looking forward to getting into bed. As you can imagine bedtime has never been sweeter and if I it weren’t too cruel to make him train 5-days a week I would. Just like any workout it gets him all achy and sore. So much so that he started asking for a massage about year ago. At first he wanted to have one when my lovely masajista would come to kneed the knots out of my shoulders. Thai, Swedish, Shiatsu or any massage on a young child doesn’t sound like a good idea to me. Instead I took being a soccer mom to the next level and offered to give him the massage myself.
He was in heaven and I was elevated to best mom in the world. For that brief moment the massage lasted at least. Then he started asking for a massage even on days he didn’t have football, random nights which quickly became every night. Hold your horses there sporty spice. Thou shalt not abuse thy mother. I managed to negotiate soccer mom massage duties only to days of actual training, games or tournaments if I did the massage with oil. Because a massage isn’t a real massage without oil according to him. So everything was in order, the routine was going smoothly and a sense of calm reigned in the Guerrero home. Until last night. I was giving Gael his foot rub at bedtime when he asks me if there is such a thing as a penis massage. Just like that. Out of the blue. With no warning.
I had to muster up all the maturity and parenting skills in me to not giggle and say “HELL YEAH!!!!! YOU BET THERE IS SUCH A THING AS A PENIS MASSAGE!!!!” In hind sight I should have told him to ask his father since I don’t have a penis and I wouldn’t really know. When in doubt pass the buck, right? But I was trying to be the mature adult that I am so what else was there to do than just ignore him, pretend not to hear him and redirect the subject as far away as possible. “That goal you scored this afternoon was soooooooo gooooood!!!!“