I am the mother of 4 sons. They are 11, 9, 8, and 6.
All around me, there are signs that my home is filled with boys.
* Sometimes I find baseballs in the fruit bowl.
* And cowboy boots in weird places.
* When they come in from playing outside, my entire house smells like sweat and dirt and grass.
* I’ve heard myself saying odd things like, “We don’t play with mousetraps!”
* Or “Who put the Webkinz hamster in the freezer?”
*Or “Please don’t draw a picture of a man bleeding on the birthday card you are making for your friend. I don’t care that the invitation had camo on it; bleeding men do not make appropriate birthday greetings!”
* Or “NO! You may not wear rollerblades while riding the scooter! Take those off!”
* This toy roach regularly scares the bejeebies out of me!
* My dinner-table rules include decrees like, “No burping or farting at the table!”
* And “No talking about burping or farting at the table!”
* And “No putting the grape tomatoes up your nose!”
* My living room is often the set for costumed wrestling matches.
* Any reference to the words “balls” or “nuts” is met with raucous laughter.
* I have actually walked by the bathroom door to find 3 -THREE!- sons standing around the toilet peeing at the same time.
* I am forever shouting things about not running with sticks, not kicking soccer balls in the house, not crawling into the metal drainage pipe with the jagged edges and not shooting Nerf darts at a sibling’s face.
But there is something about sweaty, stinky, sticky hugs from a little boy. There is that moment when a son comes running full-force, nearly knocking me over with a powerful hug that cannot contain his love.
There is something about reading I Love You, Stinkyface and Snuggle Puppy and tucking in my own stinky, snuggly boys.
There is something about hearing, “I love you, Momma” from a little boy’s voice that makes all the anxiety-ridden dangerous feats, the nasty bathroom clean-up, the grass-stained jeans and the smelly socks worth it.
I am the mother of 4 sons.