When God chooses you to be the mother of boys, he throws a good dose of laughter into your heart — just in case. I think he makes us pliable, yet strict, in preparation for what lies ahead.
And let’s face it — we never know what lies ahead.
But being a mother of boys and having a good sense of humor is never going to erase the fact that, yes, I am female, and yes, there’s a certain “gross” factor that still exists, even after spending more than a decade surrounded by little boys.
As any good parent knows, it’s always good practice to keep one ear to the grindstone at all times. I don’t call it eavesdropping, more of a personal protection policy against what’s pretty darn likely to happen next. The problem with this insurance is that it works OK when you’re at home, all hands are free and you can pretty much move in any direction at any given time. Doesn’t work so well when your hands are on 10 and 2, you’re watching the speedometer and navigating busy streets.
Take, for example, the conversation that tickled my ears last week.
I was driving through Bedford with my two youngest sons, ages 4 and 7. We were a few minutes from swim lessons at the Bedford pool when I heard toddler son Alex say, “I have two boogers. Don’t tell mom.”
Mom, of course, is only 18 inches away from toddler son in a quiet car. As soon as I could, I turned — against my better judgment — to see toddler son sitting in his car seat with each index finger pointing in the air, just inches away from his face.
That’s when older and much wiser son Lucas said, “Don’t eat those, Alex. You’ll die.”
Oh, yes, the conversation does get worse.
Being a person who prefers truth to fiction in parenting matters, no matter how little or well-intended it may be, I had a split second (all the while driving) to determine how I was going to convince toddler son not to eat his boogers, while also trying to explain to him that eating them won’t make him die.
The only thing I could come up with was, “Ooooh, Alex. Don’t do that. It’s gross.”
I know that wasn’t a stellar response, but give me a break — I’m still a girl.
“Seriously. It’s really, really gross,” I yelled to the back.
I won’t expand on what happened next. I handed back a Kleenex, and I can’t be sure if it was used or not. Really, though, I don’t want to know. Let’s face it. There are still a few things my parents don’t know, and sometimes, it’s best that way.
It’s why I carry sanitizing wipes in my glove box — I’m not just a mom of boys, but I am a prepared mom of boys.
A lot of people tell me boys are easier to raise than girls. I honestly wouldn’t know. I only have boys, after all. Those same people talk of how boys bring less drama to the picture, and explain that shopping for clothes is easier and less expensive.
Although I’m not entirely convinced all of that is true, boys are just that — boys.
I don’t have screaming, whining and crying, for the most part, but I do have jumping, climbing and boogers. And if you take away the bodily fluids, I’ll gladly opt for the daredevil feats over the drama. (I do have nieces so I’ve learned that much.)
I tell my best friends, who just all happen to have girls, that my biggest dilemma in a day is getting my boys to tame the “eek” factor. It usually means reminding them to change their clothing, take showers, brush their teeth and aim. And we share a good laugh when their girls show up at church camp with suitcases, while my son rolls in with a duffle bag.
I’m sure it’ll get worse, so I’ll just keep carrying the sanitizer and hope for the best.
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