The other day out of nowhere Ethan called his Daddy "Hey, Shipwreck." I like that much better than "train wreck" and in reality that's how I've felt the past couple days: just out of sorts, tired, randomly irritable, etc.
So when Ethan said today, "Mommy my Pete hurts, could you look at it?" (Pete being The Private, if you will), I felt especially ill-equipped to deal with male gonadal maladies. Naturally I texted Noah about it.
Despite my using several euphemisms like "mock turtleneck," "cowl neck," and "helmet," Noah was able to decipher the problem I was describing, and came back with his usual advice: "Get some air on that thing." Unfortunately for me—a wife of a moderately athletic guy and the mother of almost two boys—the "get some air on that thing" methodology is disconcertingly commonplace.
My default solution, on the other hand, is "take a bath and put some talc on it." Which is what we did, since Noah wasn't home to advocate more strongly for his position. Fortunately, talcing Pete seemed to do the trick (because if there's one thing I know about male privates, and this may be the one and only thing, it's that moisture and man-bits don't mix).
I foresee a future covered in a thin dusting of Gold Bond.