MOM ON THE RUN: Sweaty son proud of his smell

I pull up to the middle school at exactly 4:30 p.m. to pick my son up after lacrosse practice. The place is a zoo, with a line of big orange buses, idling cars, and dozens of kids milling about ready to go home. There are kids fresh from jazz band rehearsal and hauling big instrument cases, girls sporting their just-received soccer jerseys, boys covered in baseball dust trudging past … and then there are the lacrosse players. Sticks in hand, they’re playing catch, flinging the hard ball high and fast, jumping and laughing.

I hit the windshield wiper lever and clear the glass, trying to pick my son out of the teeming masses. We spy each other at the same time, and I pull out into the pick-up lane as he starts toward me.
I watch him as he goes around to the back, pops the hatch of the minivan, and shoves his backpack, gear bag, and lacrosse stick in. His hair is soaked, plastered onto his forehead, his white T-shirt is clinging moistly to his chest and arms.

“Did you practice outside today?” I ask wonderingly, as my son climbs into the front seat next to me. I’m surprised; it’s been raining off and on all week, it’s drizzling now, this morning we had assumed practice would be inside, in the gym. But he’s so wet ...

“No, we were inside,” he says cheerfully, waving to his friends as he slams the door shut. Which means all that wetness on him … the smell slams me just as the connection does: All that wet is sweat.
I try not to groan aloud as I pull out and away from the school. It’s not unexpected, I have a lot of experience with my stinky post-sports eighth-grade son, and last year it was worse when I ferried three boys home, but still, every time, it’s a shock, just how brutal my kid smells after two hours of running around. And I’m trapped in an airtight minivan with him!

At the light I hold my breath and analyze the odor, as my son chatters on about practice. While he tells me about legal hits and penalties, doing sprints and the other kids, I’m trying to figure out exactly what the smell is. It’s not musky adult sweat yet, but sweetish, kind of. With sour notes. Ugh. And it’s filling the minivan cabin, and my nose, and I try to hide my suffering as I wait impatiently for the light to change, my fingers clenching the steering wheel.

Finally the light turns green and I pull into traffic, relieved to be on the move. Let’s go! My son is still talking; about practice, about his equipment, about excitement today in Spanish class. I breathe through my mouth and despite the rain I roll down the windows, sniffing the airstream like a dog, gulping it in. I watch the rain land on my armrest and hope it stays light.

“I have to run into the grocery store,” I tell my son as we turn into the shopping center. “I need tortillas for dinner.”

“OK,” he nods as, news shared, he fiddles with the radio station. “It’ll just be a minute, so why don’t you stay here?” I suggest, “not spread your smell all over the store.”

“OK,” he nods again, understanding and perfectly comfortable with the situation. And I leave him in the van while I make my dash.

Five minutes later, errand done, I take a deep breath of the cool mist before stepping back into the van. The odor has built up and intensified while I was out, though maybe it’s just new to me again. “You really, really stink,” I tell my son, tossing the tortillas onto the back seat.

“I know,” he says, grinning, and he lifts his arm, bends over and takes a deep sniff. “Isn’t lacrosse great?”

“Just what I was thinking,” I agree doubtfully as I crack the windows again and head for home.

Lianne Wilkens lives with her family in Manassas. She can be reached at liannewilkens@hotmail.com.