Boy mom

I had the rare and questionable opportunity earlier this week to have nine boys under my care for several hours. Nine boys—four of my own and five cousins—ranging in ages from 15 down to two years. Would you like to take a guess as to how much I accomplished that day?

Perhaps if we redefine “accomplish” to mean “stumbling from room to room to address whatever random task or emergency presents itself,” then we can agree that I accomplished quite a bit.

I pulled numerous Lego pieces out of the toddler’s mouth. I successfully changed the batteries on two remote control cars and corresponding remote controls, even managing to locate amid the chaos the tiny screwdriver necessary to do so. I made muffins as a snack to fend off requests for lunch (the requests started at 10:30 in the morning), but they took me so long to throw together that I decided I might as well count them as lunch anyway. I sent some teenagers out on the 4-wheeler to retrieve our dog from a kind stranger who had found her wandering in the road. I washed three loads of laundry, stress-ate the aforementioned muffins, and mopped up a mystery puddle on my kitchen floor that I stepped into with my bare feet. 

I’m so glad I went to college.

My two daughters had corresponding sleepovers with their girl cousins at different houses the same night, and I can guarantee that their time was filled with things like trying new hairstyles, making up dances, and filming mock cooking shows on my sister-in-law’s iPhone. Quiet things. Calm things.

Boys—or at least my boys—are different. They’re just LOUD. They go through the house like a herd of giraffes on an ice skating rink, knocking into walls, bouncing off each other, and making sounds that are decidedly un-human.

And the milk consumption! I buy it three gallons at a time, and whenever one of my boys pulls a jug out of the fridge (which is often), my eyes glaze over at the thought of going to the grocery store one more time to re-stock. What do they have against water? There is a steady stream of it ready and waiting to come out of our tap for free. Could they maybe drink TWO glasses of milk per day, and just fill up on water for the rest? These are ideas that I feel are worth exploring.

Being a “boy mom” isn’t something that comes particularly naturally to me. I can be kind of prissy. I don’t have great aim with a Nerf gun, bathroom jokes really aren’t my forte, and I couldn’t build a convincing Lego space ship even if the ability to do so was the last thing standing between mankind and worldwide annihilation.

I have done and said things as a boy mom that I never thought I would. Phrases like “Please stop rubbing your butts together” have actually come out of my mouth. For a long time I had a toy basket in my living room simply labeled “Weapons”. 

But for all their smelly rambunctiousness, my boys have my heart. For me, there are few things better in this world than getting a tight hug from a sweaty little Cub Scout after his car wins the Pinewood Derby. I live for sweet pecks from tiny lips and chubby fingers held tightly within mine. I beam as I watch my thoughtful teenager metamorphose into the man he will become. 

Because I know that that’s what they’re all doing: they’re becoming. The endless energy and curiosity that right now test my patience will serve as assets to their future selves. Raw and rowdy will someday soften to tender and true.

These little boys will someday be great men. It just takes a lot of milk, Legos and patience to get there.