On Ian’s birthday this year, I took some time to reflect on
the past six years. He’s gone from a floppy little baby who couldn’t even hold
up his own head to a child who can read bedtime stories to me. He’s essentially
the same little baby boy that made his entrance at 5:47 p.m. on a Tuesday
evening in August of 2008. He has grown up, but he hasn’t really changed. I
mean, you can’t really change until
you start getting a sense of “who you are,” and that doesn’t happen at six. Most
of the changing that’s going on around here has been me. Because you can’t have
two boys in 16 months and stay the same. It’s just not possible. Being the second of four girls, with no brothers in the mix,
could never prepare a mother for the
chaotic journey of raising boys. If you aren’t ready to take the good with the
bad, adapt, relax, and accept the constant state of madness your life has
become…you are going to miss out an incredible experience. Here's how being a mother of boys has changed me, for better or worse.
I can not be shocked. There was a time I would look at my boys and think, "What sane human being would make that decision?!" The mind of a girl and the mind of a boy are just WAY too different. But, over the last six years I've seen enough to no longer feel shocked by anything. Seriously. NOTHING shocks me anymore. I might be caught off guard, but I will never be shocked. I've had a kid fall off the arm of a rocking chair he was standing on, catch himself on a shelf, and rip the shelf out of the wall, anchors and all. I've had a kid drop a library book out of a car window while driving 50 mph in four lanes of traffic...and then had to go play Frogger to retrieve the book from the center lane in which it landed. That was an experience. I've had a kid trip on a bathmat, fall face first onto the side of the toilet, and need 14 stitches: 3 internal and 11 external. I've spent what felt like an eternity dislodging a Fridge Phonics magnet from the room of a screaming kid's mouth.
I've had every single surface of a bedroom doused in baby oil while the kids were "napping." The 40-year-old garage door opener barely works anymore because the boys were "riding" the garage door up and down.
Frequently. I haven't seen it all, but I've seen enough to know that with little boys running around,
anything is possible. ANYTHING, I tell you.
A little chocolate ice-cream after the stitches removal.
I constantly live on
edge. I tried to freehand paint some lines on a flower pot a few months
ago. They looked as though I painted them while riding in a stage coach fleeing
an Old West train robbery. I haven’t had a steady hand in years. I live on
edge, people! I constantly have children jumping out of closets, hiding behind
shower curtains, and leaping onto my body as I walk by with absolutely
no warning.
Have you ever played an impromptu game of “Baby Spider Monkey” that you had no
idea you were going to be involved in? It’s terrifying. One minute you're putting away towels and the next minute you have 45 pounds of kid clinging to your back after he "dropped from a tree." I’m also constantly
navigating a veritable minefield of Legos. Ever ran one of those bad boys
through your instep? Good God, almighty! And while we’re on the subject, let’s
talk about clear Legos. The ones you don’t even know exist until you hear them
rattling in your vacuum. Where is the sadistic Master Builder who decided those
were a good idea? I’d like to put him in a dimly lit room with a bunch of those
little bitty, clear right triangle pieces scattered about the floor and
then have someone dangling by their knee from a top bunk start screaming for
help. I’ve stepped on two in a row before. That’s all this 31-year-old body can
handle. If I ever stepped on three in rapid succession…well, I’d probably just give
up on life for that day and resign myself to laying on the floor, waiting for
someone to discover my body. Yes, it hurts
that
badly. Try it if you don't believe me.
My definition of “danger”
has relaxed to a previously unfathomably high threshold. Like all little
boys, my boys are full of bad ideas. That sounds a little harsh. Perhaps a
better way of putting it is poorly thought out ideas. Little boys don’t
comprehend danger like adults. Recently, I caught mine plotting to use down
vests to "hang glide" off the top of a 4 ½ feet tall clubhouse. I had to shut
this down. But, generally speaking, I don’t interfere much. At one point in
time, the alarm went off in my head any time I thought one of them could get as
much as a scraped knee. Those days are gone. I don't have the energy or desire to interfere in minor injury situations. I would never get anything done. Now as I watch or listen to my
boys play, I have a constant “danger assessment” running in my brain. I can be completed zoned out from them, and key words, such as: ladder, fire, and ax bring me back to reality so I can further assess the situation before reacting. The only
time I interfere is when the danger level reaches “Potentially Life Threatening
Injury,” such as being hit by a car or falling off the top of the garage. Broken bones, stitches, black eyes…those
are the hazards of childhood. And the things of which epic tales are made. It’s good for them to fall down, cut their
knees, bloody their noses. They need to test their physical limits and get back
up when they’ve overestimated their capabilities. And believe me, they test those
limits daily. And, I'm going to be perfectly honest here, a broken bone might slow them down enough for six weeks to make me feel like I'm on a little mini vacation.
I know the best color on my boys is “dirt.” There was a time that I tried to control the messes and chaos of everyday life.
“Oh, you want to get messy? Let’s play with water. It’s so
messy!” No longer do I try to pull this little scam. Now, I’m constantly trying to prevent water messes because floods are the obsession du jour. You can’t begin to imagine the natural disasters unsupervised 5- and 4-year-olds can stage in a back yard in just a matter of 30 minutes or less. I mean, wow. You just can’t. At this house dirt is acceptable. Heck, dirt is encouraged on the daily! If we reach bed time and the boys don’t look like they need to be sandblasted to get the grime off or smell like a trunk full of marathoners’ shorts on a 100 degree day or if there is a good chance I
couldn’t cultivate a small vegetable garden using just the grunge I could scrape out from under their fingernails…that day probably wasn’t lived to the fullest.
It's good to be the queen. I always pictured myself raising daughters. Probably because I only had sisters. That obviously didn't happen and won't happen because we are not having more children. But as time marches on, I've realized there is something uniquely special about being the only girl in this house full of testosterone. I was meant to raise boys. I like the high energy levels that fill this house. It invigorates me. And I just can't handle drama and overly emotional beings. (It's probably why I've only had a handful of girlfriends throughout my life.)
Although I had different career aspirations at one time, I love, love, LOVE my roll as stay-at-home-mom and wife. I adore taking care of my family and the love I get from them in return for doing so. This roll makes me happier and makes me feel more fulfilled than anything else has ever come close to. I was meant to be a mom and take care of others. And I hope that I'm teaching the boys to work hard so one day their wives will be in the position to stay home, too, if they so choose.
Yep. I'm the odd (wo)man out in this house, and I have definitely had to adapt to enjoy this crazy little life of ours. I've changed. I've changed for the better and reaped the rewards. But, I definitely wouldn't mind a granddaughter or two...in about 25 years.
