Boxers

Good will abounds in my household, at present. From a musical standpoint, my younger son and I have come to a truce (albeit an uneasy truce) regarding violin. We have learned Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. This seemingly small success has made violin, on the whole, significantly more palatable. During today's lesson at school, my boy's strokes sounded smoother, his demeanor more confident although he still suffers from a seemingly incurable case of floppiness. (In the Suzuki method of violin correct posture is very important, so my son's refusal to stand rigidly for more than a couple of seconds is problematic). However, I'm a positive person and will look at the positive. He sounds great. He is doing great in kindergarten as is his brother in third grade. Life is looking good for me and mine.
So replete with joy is the current state of our house that my older son greeted my finishing the laundry last night with arms stretched in a sign of victory. "Yes," he uttered, as if acclaiming some sacred vision, "awesome." What, one might wonder, could lead a typical eight year-old boy to be so delighted with clean laundry? To answer this question, I must take us back in time. It's a late June day, and I have just brought my older son his dry clothes after swimming. I turn and am on my way out of the locker room when I hear a sneering voice enquire of my son, "are those tighty-whities?" "No," my son calmly answered, "they're camouflage-green." Perhaps he had missed the question's mocking tone, perhaps he is a too mature to be bothered by the prattering of some kid. I, however, did not and am not.
As soon as my son had exited the locker room, I approached him. "Did that bother you?" I asked, concerned. "No," he answered, "not really." At that moment, I knew what had to be done. This is a modern age when kids are forced into difficult decisions at very young ages. My eight year-old son needed to leap a hurdle that I, myself, did not until I was twelve. He needed boxers. Now, had I not asked my son if he was bothered, had not made it clear that I heard what went down in the locker room, I'm not sure that my boy would have cared that much. But the combustible combination of my suggesting 'maybe we can get you some boxers' and my son's natural enthusiasm resulted in the creation of a true adherent to the boxers not brief school of thought.
My wife went to Target and purchased two four-packs for my son (one boxer-brief pack, one old-school boxer pack). With the zealotry of the newly converted, my son embraced boxers as they've never been embraced. For the next few weeks after boxers entered his life, my son needed to continually reminded that it was not polite to greet family friends with 'wanna see my boxers?' (said as he pulls down his pants). I had to admit, though, he looked really cool in his boxers. Why not throw modesty to the wind for a little self-promotion (boxer-promotion)? Soon, my boy's eight boxers did not seem enough. This was particularly true while we were traveling, when my son would anxiously say, "if we don't do laundry soon, I'll have to wear regular underwear." Luckily, my wife, boss of Spanish laundry, never let my son fall to that sorry state. There were clean boxers in Spain, always. Still, my son had a point. Could a child survive on a paltry diet of eight boxers? Please. On one of our school-supply shopping trips after returning to the States we revisited Target and bought copious amounts of boxers. I believe, and sadly I am not joking, that my boy has, now, twenty-four pairs of boxers (still with a healthy balance of boxer-brief and traditional boxer).
When I told my son that I had finished the laundry and he broke into his solemn victory pose, he was not so much acknowledging the finishing of the laundry as he was celebrating the very existence of boxers. He is now boxer-rich with a veritable multi-colored coat of boxers. A different color for a different day, a different pattern for a different hour, even a different brand for a different moment. Life is good.