Ah, spring is budding and the thoughts of eleven- year old boys turn to. . . well, to their dicks.

“How was school today?” I ask my son.

“Good,” Nick says.

“Did you have art class today?” I probe, trying to get a few more words out of him.

“Yeah.”

Another one word answer. Okay, I’m forgetting to ask open-ended questions that require more than yes, no and yeah.

“We learned how to do macramé,” Nick offers.

“Cool,” I respond, knowing I sound anything but. “Everybody used to do macramé. Plant holders, wall hangings, all kinds of stuff. Did you like it?”

“Yeah, it’s easy.“ His eyes are on his dinner plate. He pushes broccoli around with his fork. “Gabe made a penis.” His eyes do not rise to mine.

“A penis?” I’m surprised, as much by Gabe’s boldness as his choice. “Was it obvious? Could you tell?”

“Totally,” Nick says. “All the kids were talking about it.”

“Could the teacher tell?” I ask. I’m cracking up. I can’t hide my humor.

“I don’t know. She didn’t say anything.”

We’re both laughing. I’m pretty astonished by Gabe’s ingenuity and by my son’s willingness to tell me.

I have dinner at Gabe’s house a few weeks later. His mother is one of my closest friends. She and I are sipping wine and planning a summer vacation together.

“Did you hear about Gabe’s macramé project?” I ask.

“Yes,” Peggy says. “He loved that project. You know how he usually hates art. Every year I get calls from the teacher saying he just sits there. Won’t participate.”

She rises from her chair and steps toward the adjacent family room. “I hung his project on the wall,” she says. “Let me show you.”

Peggy slides the pocket door back and reaches up to the wall. “Gabe, I’m going to show Nick’s mom your macramé project.”

“Okay Mom.” Do I hear hesitancy in Gabe’s voice?

Peggy carries the twine piece into the dining room and holds it with pride.

Sure enough, it’s a penis. Two orange balls on either side of a wide column at the top. Fringe across the top – could it be -- pubic hair? The column narrows to a tip adorned with three colorful beads.

“Peggy,” I say, unable to hold back any longer. “It’s a penis.”

She steps back, takes a fresh look. Her eyes widen, her mouth opens. “Oh my God, you’re right.”

We are filled with silent laughter, not wanting to embarrass Gabe in the next room. We double over, covering our mouths with our hands to keep the guffaws inside.

It strikes me that our funniest moments as parents, our most touching ones, are those that we can’t plan for or predict.

Ah, I love the story of the macramé penis. It’s a keeper.

By Marianne Lonsdale

Labels: Marianne Lonsdale

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