Living with boys means you never sit on a toilet in the dark. It also means searching for batteries that work will become your quest for the Holy Grail. (The old, useless variety are scattered everywhere) On the other hand, if you wish to find a Lego or a Matchbox car for any reason, you need only to close your eyes and take two steps in any direction for them to materialize right under your bare feet!
Being the mom of boys is a special role that not all mothers are called to, but those of us who are feel both blessed and driven to the brink of insanity by our little men. Trees and rooftops are extensions of their play yards, so we have to keep our eyes peeled and our prayers constant. They will swim for hours without taking a potty break, so we keep the chemicals in balance and our mouths closed in the water. Blood is a part of life, as are black eyes, ragged jeans, and the constant smell of armpit, gas, and halitosis. I assume some of these, at least the odors, will dissipate as interest in girls takes priority over hurdling fences, taking 10 second showers, and making your sister scream with your smelly emissions from whichever end may render them. Another fact of life for the boy mama is that at some point, a mom down the block will call for you to come pick up your precious child and drive him to the ER for stitches. Now the reason for having to have your son stitched back together could range anywhere from tripping over untied shoe laces (1st grade, 4 sutures on the forehead), to doing stunts over the sofa or in a swimming pool (age almost 3, 4 in the lip and age 4, 17 in the mouth and lip, respectively), to running with a metal pole to make sparks on the sidewalk and impaling self on said pole (two weeks ago, 10 sutures below knee cap). The boy in question is the reason John Frieda 4N Dark Brown is my "natural" hair color as opposed to stress-induced gray.
This was Monday when the pediatrician let him remove his own stitches with a scalpel and forceps. Doc really should have taken the sharp objects from his hands before jamming a swab in the boy's throat for a strep test because his natural response was to throw his arms up, narrowly missing cutting the doctor. That is why no mother would ever hand a scalpel to a 10 year old. Ever. You can go ahead and thank me now for not sharing the gory photos the child insisted I take at the ER for him to show his friends. I also refused to let him keep the bloody sock for show and tell. I am however, willing to let him pick up the next hospital tab should he expose his insides to the outside ever again.
Being the mom of boys is a special role that not all mothers are called to, but those of us who are feel both blessed and driven to the brink of insanity by our little men. Trees and rooftops are extensions of their play yards, so we have to keep our eyes peeled and our prayers constant. They will swim for hours without taking a potty break, so we keep the chemicals in balance and our mouths closed in the water. Blood is a part of life, as are black eyes, ragged jeans, and the constant smell of armpit, gas, and halitosis. I assume some of these, at least the odors, will dissipate as interest in girls takes priority over hurdling fences, taking 10 second showers, and making your sister scream with your smelly emissions from whichever end may render them. Another fact of life for the boy mama is that at some point, a mom down the block will call for you to come pick up your precious child and drive him to the ER for stitches. Now the reason for having to have your son stitched back together could range anywhere from tripping over untied shoe laces (1st grade, 4 sutures on the forehead), to doing stunts over the sofa or in a swimming pool (age almost 3, 4 in the lip and age 4, 17 in the mouth and lip, respectively), to running with a metal pole to make sparks on the sidewalk and impaling self on said pole (two weeks ago, 10 sutures below knee cap). The boy in question is the reason John Frieda 4N Dark Brown is my "natural" hair color as opposed to stress-induced gray.
This was Monday when the pediatrician let him remove his own stitches with a scalpel and forceps. Doc really should have taken the sharp objects from his hands before jamming a swab in the boy's throat for a strep test because his natural response was to throw his arms up, narrowly missing cutting the doctor. That is why no mother would ever hand a scalpel to a 10 year old. Ever. You can go ahead and thank me now for not sharing the gory photos the child insisted I take at the ER for him to show his friends. I also refused to let him keep the bloody sock for show and tell. I am however, willing to let him pick up the next hospital tab should he expose his insides to the outside ever again.
If you are gifted by God with sons now or in the future, know that it's ok to hose them down outdoors as needed, they won't get sick from eating dog food, and if you end up in urgent care holding a bloody ice pack on your kid, you've got a friend in me. If your sweet little boy drops trow on the church's astro turf playground to relieve himself, well I've been there too, but I pretended he wasn't mine, so you're on your own. May God bless you in your role as super mom, and may He protect your wild ones with quick and tireless angels.
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