MOM ON THE RUN: Even son can't stand stinky jersey

Instantly I knew what my son was looking for when he appeared this morning, wearing only an undershirt and underwear, and bent over the basket of clean laundry. He peered in, reached out his hands, and, “Are you looking for your lacrosse jersey?” I asked. We hadn’t discussed it, but it’s game day and I haven’t seen it, so ….

His hands froze, hovered above the folded clean clothes, and, “Yeah,” he said, turning to me. “Do you know where it is?”

Shoot, I think: my kid is 14, he needs to manage this stuff on his own. He has to learn to be proactive, and not rely on me to dig out his jersey from wherever he stuffed it, wash and dry it, and present it to him just in time for the game. One of these days, I figure, I hope, he’s going to learn.

And maybe that day will be today, because, “Nope,” I say, shaking my head, “and it’s not in there.” He stands up, disappointed. “But the shorts might be. I know I saw them as I was doing laundry.” His head rotates back to the basket and his hands plunge in, digging for the shorts, which did successfully make it to the hamper.

Meanwhile, I’m pondering the missing jersey. “The last game was cancelled, but we only heard that afternoon, so you wore the jersey to school all day, right?” “Mm-hm,” my son answers. “Then I bet it’s in your bag.” In fact, now that I’ve said it, I’m sure that’s where it is, and recall seeing the sleeve poking out of his gear.

“Yeah!” my son’s eyes light up as he thinks back too, clearly agreeing with my theory. Me, I’m not so delighted, guessing the status of the shirt that’s been in that bag for a week. But I keep quiet, sensing a teaching opportunity.

Finally, after a futile churning of the laundry basket, I remember the shorts are in the dryer; waistband’s a little damp, but they’ll do. My son slips them on, drops his bagel into the toaster, and goes to dig his jersey out of the duffel bag already loaded into the minivan.

A minute later, the front door slams again, and, “Got it!” My 8th-grader sounds relieved. I look up in time to see him draw the blue shirt over his head, stick his arms in, and pull it on. I watch, curious, and sure enough: “Ooooh,” he suddenly stops, wrinkles up his face. “This really stinks.”

Well, yeah!, I think. After a week zipped up in that new, water-resistant bag? With those reeking shoulder pads, elbow pads, and gloves? Rolling around with two-year-old cleats and random loose socks? I’m surprised the fabric hasn’t melted in the toxic fumes.

Quickly he yanks the jersey back off and in one fluid movement spreads it out flat on the kitchen floor. Silently, confidently, he turns to the laundry room and extracts the bottle of Febreze. Squirt, squirt, squirt. My son applies the magic stuff liberally, turns the shirt over, soaks the other side. I watch, amused at this unexpected and good-bet tactic.

Satisfied, he sits down to breakfast, leaving the jersey to dry on the floor. “That ought to take care of it,” he says. And a few minutes later, bagel consumed, he slides the shirt back on and away we go to school.

Inside the closed minivan, the jersey’s curious Febreze + lacrosse smell becomes obvious. My son bends to sniff his shoulder, and, “It’ll be fine,” he declares. But then, minutes later, “I have a sweatshirt at school,” he says. “I think I’ll wear that today, and leave this in the locker.”

“Good idea,” I agree, and silently cheer the missing jersey whose stink has finally made a lasting impression!

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