Adrift in a Sea of Boobs

It's happening.

My boy is turning into a man. It's not like I didn't see it coming or anything. I woke up one morning and the child was suddenly three inches taller than me. Other clues have been dropped along the way as well. His sudden preoccupation with Axe body spray. The half naked chick straddling a motorcycle poster that suddenly appeared on his bedroom walls.

The signs of puberty have long been flashing in their garish neon hues that my middle child has purchased a ticket on the hormone train, riding those tracks straight to manhood.

I, however, as the foolish momma I am, have chosen to turn a blind eye to the loss of my Lego-building, dinky car driving, sandbox loving boy child by telling myself, "This is just another phase in his boyhood."

Boyhood my ass. Frac is a blink away from trading his boy chip in for a full-fledged man card.

If I had any doubts about that, yesterday erased them all.

It started like any other Sunday before it. The day was filled with sunshine and laughter. Our plans were to spend the day at the local community hall's carnival fundraiser. There was a bouncy house, an inflatable slide, hayrides, and face painting. Families from all over the area flocked to our community hall for some good old-fashioned fun.

It was an opportunity for me to parade my children around and preen on how lovely they are and picnic with my family alongside old friends.

One girl foiled it all.

A girl with boobs.

I finally understand my son's newly developed preoccupation with Katy Perry. I suspect it has nothing to do with the quality of her music.

Frac took one look at her and spent the rest of the day following her around like a lost puppy and refusing to acknowledge my existence.

At first I thought I was taking his behaviour too personally. I overlooked the fact this she-child was charming my son with her wholesome good looks. I told myself Frac has known this girl since before he was potty trained. He's just happy to see an old friend.

But when he and I stood side by side in the potato sack race as this girl stood at the finish line waiting to see who the winner would be, my son looked at me and said, "I'm winning this race." He said it emphatically and seriously and I laughed and adjusted my potato sack and said, "We will just see, young man. We will just see." I may be old, but if my kid thought I was going to forgo winning a shiny plastic dollar store medal alongside a lollipop and the bragging rights of being the Community's Best Potato Sack Jumper, he had another thing coming.

With a "On your mark, Get set, Go!" we were off as family and friends sat on the sidelines cheering us on.

I was winning. Age may not have been on my side, but years of potato sack racing experience were. I didn't have to battle the clumsiness of a growing body. I was sure footed in my sack, hopping as though my life depended on it.

I was in first place, set to win the race, driven by skill and spurred on by ego. There was no way I was going to let some teenager or toddler win this race. My son was hot on my heels and I was set to school the boy on how to win picnic-related activities.

And then it happened.

He reached forward and grabbed my sack and pulled me backwards. I tumbled down like a sack of oranges spilling in the produce section.

"FRAC!" I yelped as I scrambled to right myself and hop towards the finish line.

He hopped around me and yelled over his shoulder, "Sorry Mom! All's fair in the potato sack race!" As he bounced his way to victory his little friend cheered him on.

I huffed my way to the finish line, a sorry third place by now, and watched my son preen in front of the girl with the boobs.

My kid literally pushed his own mother down to impress a girl.

If he could have jumped on me too, I'm sure he would have.

The rest of the day was spent watching my son flirt shamelessly with the vixen who bewitched him with her womanly curves. He was oblivious to all else. My hair could have been on fire and he wouldn't have spared me a second glance. He was too busy mooning over her.

It would seem my son has finally received his TEENAGER stamp in his passport of life. My once intelligent, articulate son has now been replaced by some boob-obsessed puberty-addled man-child who is slave to the pheromones tossed off by any young female with chesticles in his vicinity.

My husband, however, has never been more proud.

"I always knew he'd be a boob man. The apple never does fall far from the tree," Boo smiled. I swear his chest puffed up with pride. Right before some chick with big boobs wearing a bikini on television distracted him.

What a boob.