My son came home from lacrosse practice today, and it was the first time I could smell him coming in the door before I actually saw him. I am telling myself that this body odor must be emanating from his clothing, and not his person. And, I am telling him to go take a shower, now. He must have just absorbed somebody else’s body odor when he was at practice. It’s like that one really smelly guy we used to play basketball with, who everybody tried not to guard too closely, since you knew that the contact alone was enough to permeate your skin and clothing. Guys used to go home and have to explain to their girlfriends, “Baby, it’s not me! Really, it’s not! There’s this guy that I had to guard, and he’s really funky ...”
No, it is not possible that my son has body odor yet. I’m not ready for that. Body odor signifies the end of an era, the end of innocence, the end of all things warm and fuzzy about motherhood, and the beginning of ... puberty. Even the sound of the word is unpleasant. Pee-yu-berty.
Another mom I know had warned me about this. How her son and his friends now pile into her car after football practice and immediately start dispensing aerosol cans of Axe body spray to mask their putrid aroma. “I felt like I was huffing!” she said, describing the buzz she was getting as the fumes wafted up to the driver’s seat.
I am not ready for Axe body spray to be added to my shopping list. I do not want to hear my son saying, “Mom, can you buy me some Axe?” in an unfamiliar, low and booming voice. Shudder.
I suppose it is bound to happen. I am reminded of the time, about thirteen years ago, when I was at the video rental store with my fourth grade niece and her middle school aged brother, and she came up to me as we walked through the aisles, sadness in her big brown eyes, reaching for my hand and reporting,
“Andrew says I have B.O.”
“Oh, that’s not nice.”
“Do I have B.O.?”
I leaned over and pretended to sniff. “I don’t smell anything,” I said, honestly. Kelsey returned to where her brother was, and said, “Aunty doesn’t think I have B.O.” And, Andrew, of course, being the older brother, leaned over and took a big giant whiff ... and promptly proceeded to make gagging and choking sounds, as if he was about to die.
“Uggggh!” he moaned.
“But I took a shower!” pleaded his little sister, eyes seeming bigger and browner than ever.
“Kels, did you use soap? Like this --” he said, demonstrating how to wash his armpits, right in the middle of the video store.
“Andrew -- I knoooow!” said Kelsey, about to die of embarrassment.
My niece’s pleading eyes were about to swallow me up whole. I was happy to be just an aunt, and not have to deal with this drama playing out completely once they got home. I didn’t realize that a decade-plus later, I would be reminiscing about that incident as the good ol’ days, when all I had to think about was somebody else’s kids having B.O., and puberty was just a thing of my past, not my kids' present and future. I need to brace myself. Yabai.
