Once upon a long time ago I wrote a post titled The Sisterhood of Sons. It kept going through my head this afternoon as four OH MY GOD LOOK SOMETHING SHINY LET’S PLAY WITH THE WALKIE TALKIES C’MERE I WANNA FART ON YOUR HEAD WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT THUMP? boys descended upon my nice quiet house after school. I finally drove the two that were not of my womb back home at dinnertime, and yet the sheer volume of boyness continued.
I have been a Mom of Boys, a charter member of The Sisterhood of Sons, for nearly six and a half years now. And I have yet to figure these creatures out. How is it possible that a clean house becomes a sty that no self-respecting pig would inhabit within 8.135 seconds of a boy crossing the threshold? What brain cells are missing and/or not connected that makes them think I cannot hear them cursing at the top of their lungs from the other room? And how can they not notice that DROWNING THEMSELVES IN COLOGNE DOES NOT COVER THE SMELL OF DIRTY FEET AND EPIC FARTS?
My ears, they ring. My head, it pounds. My soul, it cries for another round. And then…
“Wow, mommy (they never call me mommy)! You look so pretty tonight! You always look so pretty, but tonight you look really pretty!”
“Mom, uncross your legs, I wanna snuggle on your lap.”
These creatures are unlike anything else on earth. Boys. They are gross, they are tender, they are aggressive, they are loving, they are infantile, they are men in the making. Forget snails and puppy dog tails, they are Legos and farts and silly jokes and made up dirty words and stinky armpits and bad clothing choices.
How I ever ended up with two of the best I’ll never know.