Sending My Kids Back To School With One Wish

My kids just went back to school today — a 104 degree day in Austin, TX in Mid-August. This is a glorious day for me and I am currently celebrating at a coffee shop with a real-woman-thigh-sized iced latte. I’ve fucking earned this bitch.

This summer has been a long and hot one here in Texas and for reasons I don’t fully understand, I didn’t plan a lot of camps or travel. I got to spend copious amounts of time with my two boys, ages seven and nine. Hurray!

Anyone with two or more young boys probably just experienced an eye-twitch or a full-fledged seizure thinking about my summer at home with them. You see me. I see you boy mom.

Sure, girls can be tricky — but I promise you — it is not the same.

My summer days consisted of breaking up flailing wrestling matches, reminding them that my hairdryer is not a weapon despite its shape, googling “how to patch holes in drywall,” and asking them to please stop using the word “ballsac” every fourteen seconds.

(I just had to google the spelling of ballsac. There are many different options but this was the most scientific so I’m going with it.)

My kids are going through a ball obsessed phase — not the throwing kind. Oh how I wish.

Every other word out of their mouths involves balls. Their current favorite is something along the lines of: “Oh hey mom, do you know what a ligma is?”

“What?” I ask, driving them to a trampoline park for the 40th time in one week.

“Yeah ma —LIGMA BALLZ!”

“Guys, no. Just no.” They can’t hear me over their uncontrollable laughter.

Every single car ride involves ball-speak. All I can do is turn up Dua Lipa in an attempt to drown it out, but it doesn’t work. They can “out — loud” anyone and anything.

On and on they go — balls in your face, balls on your head, balls on your plate, balls on the dog. Balls, balls, balls. I try my best not to laugh but I often fail, which doesn’t help drive my point home.

Good boys shall not refer to testicular appendages outside the home, or at all.

So, as I packed up their backpacks and made sure their school clothes fit well enough, I closed my eyes and made a wish. No, not that they’d be kind to everyone or make new friends. Not to take academic risks or to raise their hands more often.

Nay. My one wish for them as they embark on their academic journeys in the second and fourth grades is to please, for the love of oatmilk lattes, do not talk about BALLZ at school. Not your ballz, not your friends’ ballz, not your dad’s ballz, or your dog. No ballz, period.

Sweet, sweet children of mine — I wish you to pretend to be civilized during the hours of 8 am — 3:30 pm. After you are in the confines of my car, the wheels may fall off as they always do.

Use balls as much as your heart desires. Just hold it in at school, please?

Pretty, pretty please with ballsacs on top? Thanks.

Love always, ligma.