Brood of boys

Guess I never grew up figuring on having a brood of boys. (And I say that in the same Ellie Mae tone as which it was intended.) I think when I played house, with all my dolls, tucked neatly in the closet that served as my cramped homestead, complete with blue and green flowered kitchen and self-created (used to be a shelf) bunk, I probably had an equal amount of girls and boys. Maybe more girls than boys, perhaps, as dolls usually seem to be a bit more on the feminine side.

Now, I have a brood of boys that is growing ...

Of course, only God knows if No. 4 is a boy, but I suspect he is. I suspect I was meant to be a Mom of Boys ... I mean, seriously, who could do this job with any more sanity than me? Who can laugh in the face of accidental cuss words, and shut up an entire car of screaming, yelling boys with a single stern voice? Who else would let a little boy fall asleep covered in sand and sweat, yet insist he brush his teeth? Who can kiss a slobbery face, seconds before that same slobbery face asks me to see if he has stinky feet, which of course, requires my nose to go where no nose should ever go? Who can do this and still love those little stinkers and laugh about their antics a million times a day?

That would be me, Mom of Boys.

I keep a notebook by my bed. I record antics as they happen, as MOB's memory often fails her. Yesterday's favorite? Alex, "Mom, will you give me a kiss?" Mom, "Of course. You can have a kiss anytime you want." Kiss transpires. Alex, "Thanks. Mommies are supposed to give kisses." Yes, indeed. Mommies are supposed to give kisses. Mommies are supposed to adore little boys, with sand in their toes and bugs in their hands.

Yes, I was meant to be a MOB, but fate only goes so far. After that, we simply must enjoy our privilege. Today, I thank God for making me a MOB.