Mom got home later that afternoon while Liz was still next door at Katie and Ben’s house. By then, I had taken a shower to try to warm up after another bout of chills and was lounging around the den in just my bathrobe. After I briefed her on the situation (as best I could in my groggy state), Mom immediately swung into action, heading into the kitchen to phone Village Pediatrics. I couldn’t overhear the entire conversation from where I was, but it sounded like she was speaking with Jill. There were a lot of “mm-hmm”s as she listened. At one point, I thought I heard her chuckle and say, “I’m not surprised” followed by “yes, I think that would be best.” There were a few more exchanges, presumably covering logistics, before she hung up. She came back to the den a few moments later carrying a glass of orange juice.

“Doctor Walker has organized everything with the hospital,” she announced breezily. “Apparently, they are quite busy this week, but she was able to pull some strings and get you into one of the last available rooms. I sure am glad we stuck with her all these years, even though you and Liz are technically adults!” As I pondered why Mom would use the word “technically”, she then added with a smile, “Jill is also such a doll; in fact, I think she has taken a liking to you!” She then segued quickly back into her more habitual businesslike mode: “The hospital will be expecting you at 5pm tomorrow, so we should leave around 4:15. Doctor Walker will operate Saturday morning. Tonsillectomy is a fairly simple procedure, so, with any luck, you should be back home by Sunday evening, though I doubt you’ll be hungry for dinner.” After that short whirlwind of practical information, her voice took on a slightly softer tone, and she came over and placed her hand on my forehead. “In the meantime, we just need to keep you comfortable and monitor you, Honey. Drink as much juice as you can to stay hydrated. Why don’t you stay here and rest a bit while I go unpack.”

I wasn’t sure what exactly she meant by “monitor” or why she particularly wanted me to rest, but she disappeared to her bedroom before I could ask for clarification. In truth, I was happy to be left alone for a while. I was also extremely grateful that Liz wasn’t there to provide more graphic details of my exam earlier that day. In particular, I was somewhat (though, admittedly not totally) embarrassed about the incident with the oral thermometer and didn’t want Mom to find out (or even think) that I had semi-deliberately sabotaged the reading so that Debra would have to take my temperature rectally. In fact, Mom seemed to finally be treating me like an adult, and I was keen to maintain the pretext of being one. In that frame of mind, I sat down on the couch, turned back to the television, and resumed flipping idly through the channels.

My complacency ended about 20 minutes later when Mom reappeared in the doorway. In one hand, she was holding the stubby-tipped thermometer. In her other hand was the jar of Vaseline. There was only one possible explanation for why she had them out, and my heart started racing in anticipation.

“Honey, I need to take your temperature,” she began, almost apologetically. “Jill told me you weren’t able to manage the oral thermometer this morning, but we still need to monitor your fever.” She had a funny look on her face, as if she couldn’t decide whether to be annoyed or amused at having to again use the rectal thermometer on me. She obviously noticed that I suddenly started blushing. Maybe she thought I was embarrassed at having to bare my bottom again for the procedure? Or maybe she really knew (or at least suspected) that I preferred the rectal route? (In reality, both observations were true.) In any event, she sat next to me on the couch, set down the thermometer and Vaseline on the cushion and put her arm around my shoulders to comfort me.

“It’s OK, Honey. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” she continued in a soft voice. “I am your mother, after all, and I’ve seen your little bottom plenty of times, especially in the last two weeks! And, anyway, lots of boys need to have their temps taken with the baby thermometer.”

I wasn’t quite sure what to make of her pronouncements. They were accurate, I guess. But it was still disconcerting to hear her using such childish language with me. I struggled to find the right response. Should I play it cool, and pretend to find the whole idea distasteful? Or should I acquiesce right away, in which case she might think I was weird (or worse) for craving something so infantile? Not able to decide which approach to choose, I just remained silent.

During the short silence that followed, Mom seemed to come up with an idea. “I’ll tell you what,” she finally resumed. A slightly conspiratorial tone had crept into her voice. She reached up, brushed back a lock of hair from my forehead and looked me in the eyes before continuing. “If it makes you feel better about it, maybe we could play a little game.” At that point, my head started spinning as I tried to think through the different possibilities of what she was getting at. Did she mean some kind of board game, to distract me while the thermometer registered? Or maybe cards? Or a video game on the television? Lots of ideas came to mind, but I was totally unprepared for what she really had in mind.

“Instead of doing things grown-up style,” she continued, “we could pretend that you’re still a little boy and that I have to lay you across my lap to take your temperature.” She paused to let her words sink in before continuing. “It would be just like the way I used to do it. You weren’t embarrassed about it then, so maybe that will make it easier for you now.”

I have to admit that I was flabbergasted by her suggestion. I couldn’t even remember the last time I had lain across my mother’s lap for anything, much less to have my temperature taken. All of a sudden, with her simple suggestion, raw emotions and memories from the past bubbled chaotically to the surface of my consciousness. I recalled the resentment I had felt when she had started to work again after divorcing Dad, leaving Liz and me to manage ourselves after school. Maybe she had sensed that and was trying to somehow atone for her past absences. It was hard to know for sure. I must have turned an even brighter shade of red, and there was a hint of tears welling up in my eyes as I felt an emotional bond with her that I had craved for so long but had always found lacking. All I could do was nod feebly in acquiescence.

“Good. Then, let’s start by getting that bathrobe off,” she suggested. Her voice was still soft, but there was a gentle, maternal authoritativeness to it now.

Overcome by a sudden sense of embarrassment as it dawned on me that I had nothing on underneath and would thus be totally naked for the the procedure, I blushed some more and asked lamely if I should go put on some underpants. A faint smile appeared on Mom’s lips.

“Well, …” she responded in her calm but firm voice, hesitating slightly before she continued. “They would have to come down anyway before I could insert the thermometer… So, there’s not really much point.” There was another long pause. “Besides, when you were younger, you usually didn’t have anything on when I took your temperature. So, we might as well make our little game as realistic as possible...”

Her voice trailed off, leaving the decision to me. Unable to refute her logic and feeling the irresistible pull of my longstanding puerile desires, I undid the belt of my robe, slipped it off my shoulders and stood up to pull it completely off. My penis, which had been erect since I first saw the thermometer, was on full display. Mom noticed but didn’t seem to pay it much heed; indeed, I’m pretty sure that she understood that it was a reaction to the situation and not to her. She took me by the hand and gently helped me to lower myself across her lap. I shifted a bit to get into the most comfortable position I could. Lying there made me feel strangely at ease and brought back more childhood memories. It must have been quite the sight, though, with my butt raised up and my head and feet resting on the couch. I began to worry that Liz might barge in and give one of her condescending smirks.

Mom picked up the thermometer, and I felt her entire body jerk as she used snapping motions with her arm to shake down the column of mercury. After several rounds, holding the instrument up to the light after each time to eye the scale, she finally seemed satisfied with the reading. She then unscrewed the jar of Vaseline and dipped the thermometer inside. When it re-emerged, there was a thick dollop of yellow jelly covering the last half inch, completely engulfing the short, stubby bulb. Mom spread my buttocks with one hand and deftly inserted the thermometer several inches into my rectum. As usual, the Vaseline made it feel colder that it really was, and I shuddered at the pleasant feeling of the glass rod sliding deep inside me. Once the thermometer was in place, she cupped my buttocks, allowing the stem to protrude between her fingers as she held it firmly in place.

We didn’t say a word the entire time that the thermometer was registering. Indeed, we didn’t need to. There was a newfound complicity in our relationship that didn’t require words. As the minutes ticked by, even my worry about Liz coming home and seeing me in that position faded away.

Finally, the time was up, and Mom slowly (maybe reluctantly?) removed the now-warm thermometer from my rectum. There was a soft sucking noise caused by the Vaseline as the instrument came out, and as usual, I felt a slight pang of melancholy from the empty feeling left after it was gone. Mom wiped the thermometer and held it up to read it as I continued to lie there quietly across her lap. I couldn’t see her face from my position, but I did hear her let out a quiet sigh, and I thought I could sense a frown. Or could it really have been a smile?

“You’re still running a temperature, young man,” she said, almost chiding me. “We’ll need to be sure it doesn’t spike before I take you to the hospital tomorrow.