I have to go back to school in a New York minute (thankfully, though, not before I actually go to New York next week) and if I think about it for too long I start to have some kind of panic attack and I hover on the verge of an all out toddler temper tantrum.
I love summer.
I never, ever, want it to leave me.
As I laid in bed thinking about my dwindling break, I decided we were definitely making today a pool day and we were definitely inviting friends.We ended up there with my friend, the boys' best buddies and another one of Garrett's friends from school. And so, it was a gang of two twelve year olds, an eleven year old, a ten year old, a nine year old, and a partridge in a pear tree who masquerades as a two year old.
They played and swam and soaked up the sun and one of them pooped a big disaster into a swimmy diaper. After that mess, in which I tried to wash him off in a shower that actually felt like needles were piercing skin and he cried and cried and screamed, "Mommy, no more!" and I finally had to make it work with a few baby wipes, I dried him off and declared it a day.
I'd been told that my nine year old was doing flips off the tall springboard and I needed to see this for myself. I walked over to the diving pool with my toddler in my arms and my friend at my side. As we walked past the springboard, I saw one of the girls from Garrett's grade. She is one of the kindest and most beautiful girls. She's also a giant and my son is a shrimp. As a teacher, I adore her. I pointed her out to Garrett. "Oh!" he said, "Yeah." And then my barely twelve year old marched right over to her and said hello.
I was so proud of his friendliness.
"Oh! Hi Garrett!" she said and she walked toward him with an arm extended in what could only be interpreted as the beginning of a side hug. Just as she began to say, "Let me give you a hu---" he turned on his heels and walked back to his friends.
Oh. Man. Rejected.
She mumbled, "Nevermind..." and then vacated that particular pool immediately. Garrett walked back and I explained that he likely, without meaning to, had really embarrassed her. I knew he wasn't trying to be a jerk. I don't think he even knew she was going to hug him. But she clearly felt burned. It was so obvious to this former sixth grader.
I told him to find her and make small talk. "You don't have to hug her, but at least make sure she knows you're friends. Smooth it over, in case she thinks you were trying to be mean."
He and his friends found her and hers. They stood together for a few minutes. I don't know what was said, but it was a glimpse into my future. This future of cute girls and my son. And his buddies. Eventually he told her he was going to New York next week. He said, "I'm going to a Broadway show." Apparently she responded jokingly with, "What? I hate you!" and then she jumped in the pool.
As we got our stuff packed up, his best friend sat across from him while they both ate a few cookies. "She keeps looking at you."
"She does?" he asked.
"Yeah," his other friend said. "She's staring over here."
"Maybe she likes shorter men," I said. They all broke into laughter. On the way out, I heard the boys teasing each other about girls and I looked at my friend. "They were three. Do you remember that? They were JUST THREE."
My son has been 12 for a week. When I was 12 years and 9 days old, a boy asked me to "go out" with him. For a solid year we never actually went anywhere. We just ate lunch together and, on rare occasion, held sweaty hands. I told Garrett today that I was 12 when I first had a boyfriend. His eyes got huge. "Don't worry," I said. "I didn't kiss him or anything like that. We just held hands."
He wrinkled his nose. "Gross."
Phew.
Showing posts with label boymom. Show all posts
Showing posts with label boymom. Show all posts
Friday, July 27, 2018
Saturday, June 4, 2016
Never Tell a Girl...
Even though our weather is in the 80's and it's June and gardens are blooming (not mine, I can't grow anything outside of a pot. A pot. Important A there. I do not grow marijuana in my spare time.) and pools are open and summer has begun, my children are in school until July. But my best friend's children (who happen to be my children's best friends) got out yesterday. In honor of this splendid occasion, she invited us to the pool at their clubhouse for an afternoon swim.
It should be said that the seven-year-old and the eight-year-old swam pretty much non stop for nearly two hours. This story is not about them.
The nine-year-old and the ten-year-old did not. This is because Garrett, the nine-year-old, decided to hurt his leg at school. He was dramatically limping and complaining about how terribly his wounded leg hurt. I was growing increasingly concerned because my child does not miss an opportunity to play in the pool. Yet, there he was, lying on the deck, being surly and emotional. I should point out that, later in the day, after an Ibuprofen and some ice, he rallied and it looks like he'll live after all.
The ten-year-old, hers, as I do not yet have one, was acting like a teenage girl with PMS. I'm not judging. My older child often displays the same behavior. He was getting worked up over every little thing the baby brothers were doing and it finally landed him in a time out chair. There they sat, the best friends, the boys who have been involved in an intense bromance since they were three, lumps on the pool deck.
Eventually, when their hormonal and/or injured moping became too much for us, we pulled out all the stops. I called Garrett up onto my lounge chair and began rubbing his muscle, which, it turns out, was probably just sore from track practice. His best buddy sat on the end of his mom's chair. He was a grump. I tried to make him laugh. Nothing. We teased them about growing up to be Felix and Oscar where they would live together forever in their bachelor pad until they decided to get married. And then, they must find girls who would not mind spending their lifetimes living in an apartment with the other boy and his wife.
Finally, we asked the ten-year-old if he had PMS. He shot us a death--but curious--look. "What's that?"
I scrambled. "Um. Pre. Macho. Syndrome."
Garrett looked at us, blinking.
"But what is it really?" the ten-year-old asked.
My friend scrambled. She mumbled something about when girls are grumpy.
"But never tell a girl she has PMS," she finished.
Words of wisdom to my almost preteen son. NEVER TELL A GIRL SHE HAS PMS. But, apparently, we can tease our sons that they do.
It should be said that the seven-year-old and the eight-year-old swam pretty much non stop for nearly two hours. This story is not about them.
The nine-year-old and the ten-year-old did not. This is because Garrett, the nine-year-old, decided to hurt his leg at school. He was dramatically limping and complaining about how terribly his wounded leg hurt. I was growing increasingly concerned because my child does not miss an opportunity to play in the pool. Yet, there he was, lying on the deck, being surly and emotional. I should point out that, later in the day, after an Ibuprofen and some ice, he rallied and it looks like he'll live after all.
The ten-year-old, hers, as I do not yet have one, was acting like a teenage girl with PMS. I'm not judging. My older child often displays the same behavior. He was getting worked up over every little thing the baby brothers were doing and it finally landed him in a time out chair. There they sat, the best friends, the boys who have been involved in an intense bromance since they were three, lumps on the pool deck.
Eventually, when their hormonal and/or injured moping became too much for us, we pulled out all the stops. I called Garrett up onto my lounge chair and began rubbing his muscle, which, it turns out, was probably just sore from track practice. His best buddy sat on the end of his mom's chair. He was a grump. I tried to make him laugh. Nothing. We teased them about growing up to be Felix and Oscar where they would live together forever in their bachelor pad until they decided to get married. And then, they must find girls who would not mind spending their lifetimes living in an apartment with the other boy and his wife.
Finally, we asked the ten-year-old if he had PMS. He shot us a death--but curious--look. "What's that?"
I scrambled. "Um. Pre. Macho. Syndrome."
Garrett looked at us, blinking.
"But what is it really?" the ten-year-old asked.
My friend scrambled. She mumbled something about when girls are grumpy.
"But never tell a girl she has PMS," she finished.
Words of wisdom to my almost preteen son. NEVER TELL A GIRL SHE HAS PMS. But, apparently, we can tease our sons that they do.
Saturday, May 21, 2016
#boymom v #momofboys
There is a difference between being a #boymom and being a #momofboys. Hear me out. If you have one, two, or even twelve sons, but you also have a daughter (or twelve) you are a mom of boy(s). You have them. You inherently understand the incessant obsession with battles and bugs and tree climbing. You know about that sweaty boy funk that settles in around third grade and never really leaves. At least, not until they make their acquaintance with a lady friend who won't come over if the gym socks are strewn about, stinking up the joint. You commiserate with every other mom of boys who has no idea how she's gonna feed them in a year. Or has already accepted a second job JUST so she can keep food in the refrigerator. If you have just one boy to love and raise, you get it.
You get the snuggles. You understand the quivering lip when he's struck out one too many times and he just needs a hug even though there's no crying in baseball. You know the privilege of raising these sweet little stink bombs.
But a boy mom is something different entirely.
A boy mom doesn't have daughters. Not even one. And it makes a difference. We wear our hashtag boymom label proudly because there is absolutely nothing to offset the testosterone that flings around our homes.
When my kids were itty bitty, my friend was in the thick of raising her four children. She has three boys and a girl. She knows weaponry and air soft. She knows video games and how to interpret grunts. She told me that the only thing that saved her sanity was having that girl. When she was plumb sick and tired of picking 32 towels up off the floor, that girl's towel was hung nicely on its rack. When she'd had a day and the boys came in barreling over one another and seeing who could fart the loudest, that girl sat down next to her on the couch and asked if she was alright. When everything smelled, that girl came down the hall wearing Cucumber Lime lotion from Bath and Body Works. She didn't love the girl any more than those boys. It's just that when she needed a break from the grease and the grime, she took the girl to the mall or they got a pedicure. Or both.
She is a #momofboy.
I am a #boymom. Strangely, no matter how often I clean my toilets, when I get down at their level for a good scrub, my nostrils are infiltrated by the festering smell of pee. I can't find it. Everything looks clean. But my house will, apparently forever, reek of urine. It's not that a "mom of boy" doesn't have this problem, but she's also got a teenage daughter burning a Sea Breeze candle in the other room or a little one squirting tests of perfume on her dainty wrist. THOSE SMELLS BALANCE THE PEE, Y'ALL.
We boy mom's got nothin'.
We've got baseball bags with stinky shirts wadded up in the bottom. We've got dirt and snips and snails and puppy dog tails. We've got BB guns and footballs and athletic cups lying in the middle of the floor. We've got time snowballing toward the day they will walk through the kitchen with armpit hair, mumbling a one word answer about how their day was while they grab all the food in the pantry on their way to theirsmelly man cave bedroom.
And we have all the joy of these sometimes mama boys, these tiny men who cling to us when they're sick or when their pride is wounded, these bed headed little wonders who look like Tasmanian devils while they're awake but angels while they sleep.
The truth is that we love these guys--irreparable pee smells and all--forever and for always. We feel pretty proud of the fact that God said, "You will parent only what you are not. I trust you with this. Good luck and Myspeed."
But since we don't get to balance all that testosterone with even a few, blessed drops of estrogen, can you let us have #boymom? We'll just be scrubbing mud out of the carpet (again) while we await your answer.
You get the snuggles. You understand the quivering lip when he's struck out one too many times and he just needs a hug even though there's no crying in baseball. You know the privilege of raising these sweet little stink bombs.
But a boy mom is something different entirely.
A boy mom doesn't have daughters. Not even one. And it makes a difference. We wear our hashtag boymom label proudly because there is absolutely nothing to offset the testosterone that flings around our homes.
When my kids were itty bitty, my friend was in the thick of raising her four children. She has three boys and a girl. She knows weaponry and air soft. She knows video games and how to interpret grunts. She told me that the only thing that saved her sanity was having that girl. When she was plumb sick and tired of picking 32 towels up off the floor, that girl's towel was hung nicely on its rack. When she'd had a day and the boys came in barreling over one another and seeing who could fart the loudest, that girl sat down next to her on the couch and asked if she was alright. When everything smelled, that girl came down the hall wearing Cucumber Lime lotion from Bath and Body Works. She didn't love the girl any more than those boys. It's just that when she needed a break from the grease and the grime, she took the girl to the mall or they got a pedicure. Or both.
She is a #momofboy.
I am a #boymom. Strangely, no matter how often I clean my toilets, when I get down at their level for a good scrub, my nostrils are infiltrated by the festering smell of pee. I can't find it. Everything looks clean. But my house will, apparently forever, reek of urine. It's not that a "mom of boy" doesn't have this problem, but she's also got a teenage daughter burning a Sea Breeze candle in the other room or a little one squirting tests of perfume on her dainty wrist. THOSE SMELLS BALANCE THE PEE, Y'ALL.
We boy mom's got nothin'.
We've got baseball bags with stinky shirts wadded up in the bottom. We've got dirt and snips and snails and puppy dog tails. We've got BB guns and footballs and athletic cups lying in the middle of the floor. We've got time snowballing toward the day they will walk through the kitchen with armpit hair, mumbling a one word answer about how their day was while they grab all the food in the pantry on their way to their
And we have all the joy of these sometimes mama boys, these tiny men who cling to us when they're sick or when their pride is wounded, these bed headed little wonders who look like Tasmanian devils while they're awake but angels while they sleep.
The truth is that we love these guys--irreparable pee smells and all--forever and for always. We feel pretty proud of the fact that God said, "You will parent only what you are not. I trust you with this. Good luck and Myspeed."
But since we don't get to balance all that testosterone with even a few, blessed drops of estrogen, can you let us have #boymom? We'll just be scrubbing mud out of the carpet (again) while we await your answer.
Sunday, March 6, 2016
Men in Heels
I own two pairs of heels. That's what happens when you marry someone who is one half inch taller than you are. Heels are the first thing to go. Today, I decided to wear one of my pairs of heels to church.
My boys are obsessed with walking around in my heels. I have no earthly idea why. They think it's fun. It might be kind of like my childhood obsession with crutches. I didn't actually want to break my leg, I just thought crutches were splendid fun.
So, this morning, I had my heels sitting out and when I went to put them on, they were missing. I found my oldest son, the one who is nine and half years old, standing at the counter, brushing his teeth like this.
Ignore the plunger in the bathtub. You don't want to know.
Sunday, February 21, 2016
Changes
My boys have their best friends over right now. The littler boys are playing in the yard, same as they almost always do. Same as they've done for years. Same as the older boys have always done. Usually it's all four of them playing and having fun and some combination ends up trying to kill each other. It's how they roll. It's what we're used to.
But right now the nine and a half year olds are upstairs listening to music.
That's it.
That's what they're doing.
And I'm catching a glimpse of my teenager--who will be here in just a few years--hanging out with his buddy, listening to music and talking about girls or cars or whatever kids these days are talking about.
Where'd my baby go?
Heck, where'd my little boy go?
But right now the nine and a half year olds are upstairs listening to music.
That's it.
That's what they're doing.
And I'm catching a glimpse of my teenager--who will be here in just a few years--hanging out with his buddy, listening to music and talking about girls or cars or whatever kids these days are talking about.
Where'd my baby go?
Heck, where'd my little boy go?
Saturday, February 6, 2016
#Boymom
Once upon a time, I dreamed I'd have daughters. It's not that I decidedly didn't think I'd have sons, I just didn't picture myself with them. I had a brother and my idea of fun wasn't playing in a mud puddle or frolicking in the weeds until I came home with a raging case of poison oak. I pictured Barbies and tea parties and shopping trips.
Then, God allowed infertility and contested adoption and, at the end of the day, I was so thrilled to have these two healthy boys. And then I had a daughter die and I was especially thankful, again, for my sons. So, one of my biggest pet peeves in ALL THE WORLD is to hear women--and I've heard A LOT--say things like, "I prayed that God would give me my daughters because I have no idea what I ever would have done with boys." Or, "God sure knew what He was doing when He gave me girls." Or, "I NEVER COULD HAVE DEALT WITH BOYS!"
I don't actually understand any of this line of thinking. Raising boys is hard work. But it's not hard work because they think farts are funny and they get dirty and they spill thousands of BBs all over the floor.
It's not hard work because they're loud and sometimes rowdy. It's not even hard work because they like battles and guns and the great outdoors. It's hard because raising someone to be a man is not for the faint of heart.
I must teach my boys how to be responsible leaders while also showing them how to have tender hearts. I must teach them to harness that energy and enthusiasm without crushing their God-given manliness. I have to show them how to honor and respect girls while walking the tightrope of not being unfairly controlled by them.
So sometimes, I wish God would drop a kicking, screaming ball of testosterone into the laps of all the women who shout from the rooftops that RAISING A BOY WOULD BE HER OWN PERSONAL NIGHTMARE. Because then they'd see that we raise what we are given. We love what we are given. We figure out what we're supposed to do with what we're given. Even when what we're given doesn't play with Barbies.
We let them yell.
We let them shoot BB guns.
We learn about wars and spiders and trucks and wrestling because these things matter to our children.
So, please stop telling me that you could never deal with boys. Our amazing God blessed me with them and I wouldn't trade them for anything. When you say that you couldn't have handled boys, it implies that there is something wrong with what He gave those of us who have them. It implies that you somehow received His favor while we got the consolation prize.
My children are not a consolation prize. They are first prize. Blue ribbon. I won. Twice. If you think about feeling sorry for me, think this only because one day they will grow all the way up and leave me. That will be the thing that does me in.
It's not the wars or the spilled BBs or the sheer volume, but the absence of these things that will break my heart. We raise what we are given. And we are blessed.
Then, God allowed infertility and contested adoption and, at the end of the day, I was so thrilled to have these two healthy boys. And then I had a daughter die and I was especially thankful, again, for my sons. So, one of my biggest pet peeves in ALL THE WORLD is to hear women--and I've heard A LOT--say things like, "I prayed that God would give me my daughters because I have no idea what I ever would have done with boys." Or, "God sure knew what He was doing when He gave me girls." Or, "I NEVER COULD HAVE DEALT WITH BOYS!"
I don't actually understand any of this line of thinking. Raising boys is hard work. But it's not hard work because they think farts are funny and they get dirty and they spill thousands of BBs all over the floor.
It's not hard work because they're loud and sometimes rowdy. It's not even hard work because they like battles and guns and the great outdoors. It's hard because raising someone to be a man is not for the faint of heart.
I must teach my boys how to be responsible leaders while also showing them how to have tender hearts. I must teach them to harness that energy and enthusiasm without crushing their God-given manliness. I have to show them how to honor and respect girls while walking the tightrope of not being unfairly controlled by them.
So sometimes, I wish God would drop a kicking, screaming ball of testosterone into the laps of all the women who shout from the rooftops that RAISING A BOY WOULD BE HER OWN PERSONAL NIGHTMARE. Because then they'd see that we raise what we are given. We love what we are given. We figure out what we're supposed to do with what we're given. Even when what we're given doesn't play with Barbies.
We let them yell.
We let them shoot BB guns.
We learn about wars and spiders and trucks and wrestling because these things matter to our children.
So, please stop telling me that you could never deal with boys. Our amazing God blessed me with them and I wouldn't trade them for anything. When you say that you couldn't have handled boys, it implies that there is something wrong with what He gave those of us who have them. It implies that you somehow received His favor while we got the consolation prize.
My children are not a consolation prize. They are first prize. Blue ribbon. I won. Twice. If you think about feeling sorry for me, think this only because one day they will grow all the way up and leave me. That will be the thing that does me in.
It's not the wars or the spilled BBs or the sheer volume, but the absence of these things that will break my heart. We raise what we are given. And we are blessed.
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