I’ve dealt with motherhood fairly well considering I came to it at a rather “late” stage in life. Over the years, I’ve watched The Kid grow, develop his personality, and learn things at an alarming rate.

Thank you, YouTube.

Now we’re at the point where puberty is about to kick in.

Lucky. Me.

I’ve noticed that when he talks to his friends online during PC games, he lowers his voice.

When he happens to talk to someone on the phone, or when he answers the phone, he lowers his voice.

“Why are you doing that, son?” I ask quizzically.

“Doing what?”

“Lowering your voice. What gives?”

He grins a little and turns even pinker than his sweet little cheeks normally are and says, “I heard myself online one day ... and when I’m playing, they call me a little kid, even though I’m better on the games than they are. I have to lower my voice to sound older.”

Ahhh. Ah-ha.

Most of his friends are all about a foot or more taller and their voices have changed or are beginning to change.

So far I’ve yet to meet one who’s got the high/low voice characteristic of young malehood.

I thought that I was well-prepared for the questions a young pre-teen might pose to his mother, but I wasn’t quite ready for this one:

“So Mom. When do you think my ... uh ... my ... mmm ... you know ... my tingly bits ... are gonna drop?”

Tingly bits? Tingly bits.

That’s a new one.

“Gee, son, I don’t even think I know where to begin to answer that one. I would say ... probably anywhere between another year or two ... possibly three?”

I have no idea on earth.

“I have to wait three years for my voice to change? I can’t wait for three years! Isn’t there some kind of shot or something I can take to help it along?” The pleading in his voice is almost comical, because he is so much more worried about his tingly bits dropping than whether or not he’ll get facial hair or chest hair.

He might even get that fluffy bit of back hair that some fellas have, who knows?

I just shrug and give him that “what can I do?” look.

He stares at me for just a brief minute and then a deep sigh comes forth from his chest.

“You don’t know ... you don’t know anything,” he says to me accusingly.

“Hey, I’m just a mom, not a pediatrician. If I could hyperspeed your body clock, I would. You’d walk down that hall and by the time you got to your desk, you’d already be studying for your final exams at college! I’d do anything to leap over the next 10 or so years. Trust me!”

He pulls his little bathrobe around him tighter, as if trying to hold on to the way his life is at the moment.

That little bathrobe is about two sizes too small, but he wears it like it has superpowers. The cuffs are almost up to his elbows, and the length sits on him about mid thigh. Still, it’s as comfy as it ever was.

I should make up an experiment and have him try it out. You know, something I can do while laughing behind his back because sometimes I’m just evil that way.

I’m thinking, “have him sit on a little pile of rocks out back, rocks that had been warmed by the sun.”

You know, like a chicken sitting on her eggs.

Have him go out there and sit for about a half hour every day, the rocks warming his tingly bits so that he feels like there might actually be some action sooner than later.

I could turn it into a “lab experiment” for his science class, complete with temperature chart and all.

He would fall for it for about a day or two and then feel totally ridiculous, but Lord have mercy, that would sure be funny, seeing him sitting out there like a chicken waiting for his tingly bits to drop.

And with my luck, they would.

Then he’d be going around here sounding like Foghorn Leghorn all day ... and I’d just as soon he stay nipped up in that tiny little bathrobe.

With a voice to match.