Monday, November 16, 2009

About Boys

I grew up in a family of girls. If some scientist came in and did an anthropological study, he would deduce that there were exactly the minimal number of the male species mingled in with the dozens of females to ensure no crossing of family lines. Truly, they were only there to provide the requisite chromosomal contribution....and lift heavy things. And, frankly, you can get a forklift for the heavy things.

So, one could imagine my puzzled expression when I came face to face with my first son. We never wanted to know the babies' genders before they were born. Mostly because I'm morbidly superstitious. But also, because WE. MAKE. GIRLS. Duh.

And because God enjoys a good joke as much as anyone, he thought, "One was funny. Two will be a riot." Well done, God. My daughter protested loudly that I owed her a sister after those two awful boys. I'm pretty sure we had a very deep and meaningful conversation about Playing Chicken with God. The lesson being, "Don't play chicken with God."

Six years have passed since I saw that first boy face; three since the second one decided to up the ante. But oh the things I have learned:
  • "It doesn't match" translates to "zhzhhzhzhhzhzhhzhzhzh" Shirts match pants, period. It doesn't matter the color, style, design, season or fabric. If you have something on top, and something on bottom, you match.

  • Everything can become a gun -- sticks, sunglasses, a spatula, a headless Barbie, enough Legos. My high heels were deemed a good alternative -- until one day when I looked out the kitchen window and saw Jimmy Choo battling Manolo Blahnik for the prized land of MyFrontYard. Quickly assembling my armies, Prada and Gucci, I waged a full-scale attack, defeating the opposing commanding generals. We're currently negotiating the terms of their surrender. Safe to say the land of MomsCloset has been forfeited.

  • A boy's natural reaction, when you leap out from behind the kitchen door and yell "RAA!" is to hit the ground. Flat down. And then get mad because you made him pee.

  • Apparently, it is possible to determine the winner of Penis Lightsaber (a caveat, it is advised to play this game in the shower, preferably BEFORE you soap them down) He who runs out of "light" first, loses.

  • The best parts of my first grader's school day are invariably when someone farted, tried to fart, or taught everyone else how to make farting sounds with their armpits. Which gets demonstrated. Topless. At dinner. At which point the younger one joins in. And McLovin.

  • Similarities exist between boy and canine when, promptly after being bathed, both run around the house in no discernible direction. And naked. [Editor's Note: The dog considers his collar to be clothing. And, no, they weren't bathed together. That would be gross.]

  • Of every song he's ever heard, these are the lyrics he's decided to memorize, complete with hand gestures. "Oh I got this rocket; In my friendly pocket; Ready to explode like a bomb." I swear, he's never seen a music video. How does he know these moves? Thank you, Jesus Jackson. Your name gives him absolution. Awesome.

  • Every instance of nudity in our house is accompanied by "naked, naked, naked" -- sung in the way one sings "nanny nanny boo-boo" -- complete with hip shake.

  • My boys will wear the same socks and underwear eleventeen days in a row, but heaven forbid if one of the other kids pretends to wipe a non-existent booger on their shirt. That thing is COMING OFF.

  • They can hit a ten footer without using the rim when they're playing basketball, and yet the laundry hamper....odd.

  • Claim is made on food by spitting on it. "My brownie!" [hock, thwap] Successfully thwarted after I spit on same brownie and said "ewww, now you don't want it either"

  • Rather than an alarm, I'm typically woken up to the sounds of one of my boys announcing that it is, in fact, morning. How do they know? They're BOYS, and it's MORNING, and they're, ummm, fascinated with their own anatomy.

But, at the end of the day, when hair smells of shampoo and they ask you once again what they had for dinner, and when you remind them, they say "oh yeah, that was goooood," you snuggle down with them in their freshly laundered sheets, listen to them recite their own version of the Lord's Prayer ("...who art in heaven, Halloween is my name, til kingdom come...") and think to yourself that there can't be anything better than this. And then someone farts...


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