My 13 year old son, Matthew has grown taller and bigger than me in recent months; not to mention has developed a physical strength comparable to that of Superman. Granted, I am only 5’ 6 but I am no skinny-minny. I have curves, a small inner tube of sorts around my waist which surprises me everyday even though I know its there and boobs that enter a room before I do. And even though I consider myself tough, I am a girl and pride myself on, not being necessarily fragile or delicate but definitely a girly girl. I like pretty shoes. I like the color pink. I like to wear makeup and at nearly 41, I pride myself on not being a frumpy mom, even if the trendy clothes I buy are found at Walmart or Target.
When Matthew was younger, he was obsessed with WWE, Wrestlemania, Smackdown, Raw or anything that had to do with this sport (if that’s what we are calling it). I obliged him by taking him to wrestling events (I even got to touch Batista’s flat, chiseled stomach once which was kinda enjoyable), buying him all the little figures of John Cena, Ray Mysteria, Triple H, Big Show and about 100 others, wrestling rings, posters, etc…I figured it was harmless. But what we would also do is have our own wrestling matches. Yup, just me and Mattie, Of course at ages 7-10, all I would really have to do was flip him on the couch, sit on him and tickle him until he gave up. It was simple. This wrestling tradition has never ceased in our house. Ever. Not even now, that he stands taller than me and nearly outweighs me. He now thinks this ritual is hysterical. My bruised and battered body no longer finds the humor in this activity. Nevertheless, it continues. Short of he and I rehearsing a “money in the bank ladder match”, there are bodies (mine) being thrown onto the couch or the floor (whichever I hit first) arms being twisted (mine). He now sits on me and “tickles” me. I use this term loosely. It is more like big, long, very strong sticks being pressed into your flesh at mock speed. I surely wouldn’t call this tickling of any kind. But I, being a tough, girly girl will not give in nor will I give up. I fight him until I am banged up and bruised. You know I used to shout to the kids rough housing, “Knock that crap off. Somebody is going to get hurt”. Well that somebody that is rough housing and getting hurt is now ME.
I know he doesn’t hurt me on purpose. He merely has no concept of how strong he truly is. All I have to do is “tap out” and he will stop; which of course, I refuse to do. I may like pink and pretty things but I am still a mom and I have to show this kid whose boss. But just like there is no crying in baseball, there is NO crying is wrestling either. There is a bunch of whining going on and “ow” (s) and/or “crap” (s) that echo through the house but for all the words I utter or scream, he shows me absolutely no mercy. So to end the torture, I must act truly hurt. Another kind of mother may feel guilty in lying or pretending to be hurt, but another kind of mother may not have a 140 pound kid holding them down and twisting their body like a contortionist. After about 20 minutes or so, he finally lets me up and as I catch my breath, he taunts and teases me for losing, for being weak, etc. for which I truly want to kick his ass. But I will let it ride this time. After all, he won fair and square and to be honest, I cannot take him “taking” me again. There will be no ass kicking tonight. I will retreat to my corner, head held low, praying that the wine and the Advil will soon kick in. Mattie shouts, “That was great Mom. Sorry I kicked your butt. Better luck next time.” He laughs that deep laugh that I love and walks out of the room. Yea, I am thinking, there shouldn’t be a next time but I know full well when the boy challenges me again, I shall try with all my might to take him down. It’s a connection we have; a “fun” that only he and I share. My only hope is that when he reaches 6’3 and 185 pounds, he will turn in his heavy middle-weight championship wrestling belt and leave his mother out of the Smackdown in the cul-de-sac.
