Growing up, I always thought I’d
have girls, little angels dressed in pink who quietly held tea parties and
played with their dolls. This image was,
of course, pure fantasy, but as some sort of cosmic joke, I was told, in two
out of three pregnancies, that I was having a girl. Each time they were wrong.
For the third, I told them not to bother trying to guess since there really was
no point.
It worked out exactly as it should. I adore being the mother of three
boys, but I had to learn some lessons along the way. I got used to buying blue,
investing a small fortune in Thomas the Tank Engine, and understanding the
rules of soccer (it took years for me to understand offsides, and I’m still not
entirely sure I fully grasp the concept). Sometimes I see myself as a sort of
cultural anthropologist, exploring the unknown world of the male psyche. Now
that the boys are older (20, 16, and 13), bigger, and much hairier, there are
still lessons to be learned.
1. Pants are optional. Once the door to the outside world is closed,
everyone in my house loses their pants and strolls around free and unfettered
in boxers. I don’t wear boxers and don’t understand the joys of being
pants-free, but if I did, panic and chaos would ensue. My boys shriek and cover their eyes if they catch
me even for a second in my undies, so I have come to the conclusion that pants
are mandatory for any and all female members of this household (aka me).
2. The pants optional rule remains in effect even
if visitors appear, but only if the visitors are close friends or family. I can tell how close a friend is by the
reaction of my boxer-clad bunch. If it’s someone in their inner circle, no
pants are required. They remain in their normal lounging position, which is
something between a sit and a sprawl on the couch. If the visitor is not part
of that group, however, they spring into action, covering with a blanket and
sprinting up the stairs, like a herd of pants-less cockroaches.
3. Second breakfasts aren’t just for Hobbits.
People aren’t exaggerating when they say teenaged boys are hungry all the time. I recently had to explain to someone why we
have dinner at the ungodly hour of 4:30 pm (on most days). It’s because my boys
get home from school and their afternoon activities completely ravenous, and
have a very narrow window of opportunity to eat before their evening activities
begin. Don’t worry – they normally eat an additional meal at a time that even
the most sophisticated Europeans would condone later in the evening. We can
call this “supper” or simply “foraging in the pantry.” It involves a lot of
standing, staring, and cries of “What do we have do eat?” and “I’m so hungry.”
4. I know more about sports than I ever cared
to know. My boys play soccer and tennis, so I am pretty knowledgeable about
both those sports and enjoy watching them compete. I’m not terribly interested
in sports in general. My cries of support during soccer games are usually along
the lines of “Good job! Now tie your shoes.” I get a little startled when the
other parents shout things out that sound awfully negative, and I’m often seen
clapping even when the other team gets a goal. Tennis is a little easier since
you aren’t really allowed to shout things out. My comments in tennis consist of
the ever popular “Nice shot” and that is about it. My boys only play these two
sports, but they seem to know everything about every sport. I don’t understand
it. They know the players, the teams, the rankings – and I have absolutely no
idea how they acquired this vast knowledge. Maybe having the “y” chromosome
allows some sort of sports knowledge by osmosis thing to occur. It’s a mystery.
5. They don’t understand how the laundry chute works. Yes, they get the complexities of rugby, even though they have never
been to a single game, but they cannot understand that the hole behind the
secret door in my bathroom leads directly to the pile of unwashed clothes in
the laundry room. Instead they leave their clothing, like some sort of
sacrificial offering to the laundry god, on the floor right next to the laundry chute. Why? It’s also a mystery.
6. Speaking of laundry, it is a never-ending,
full-time occupation. I just got a
new washer and it changed my life. Honestly. I can wash like ten pairs of jeans
at once now. In the last twenty years, I have learned a lot about laundry. I
know how to remove grass stains (even from the brand new khakis that weren’t
supposed to be worn for impromptu soccer games), how clean and dry cleats and
shin guards without ruining them, and how to get chocolate, blood, or vomit out
of anything. It's also a chance for my to express my feminine side. They don’t really sell any manly scented fabric softeners, so I
get the most floral, girly, lavender and vanilla scented stuff I can find just
to mess with them.
7. Scents, deodorants, and why I really should
buy stock in Axe. Walk down any middle school hallway anywhere in the
country, and soon you’ll get a little tickle in your nose and feel your eyes
begin to sting. The aroma of Axe, that magnificent spray-on deodorant that has
become a rite of passage for pre-pubescent boys. Breathe it in. Enjoy it.
Accept it. I’ve tried holding my breath so I didn’t have to inhale it and just
ended up getting lightheaded. Just embrace it and move on.
8. Speaking of smells, boys have a lot of
them. Some of these make them very, very proud. There are certain smells,
produced by their own bodies, that bring them great joy, especially if the are
accompanied by sounds. In a freak accident, I lost most of my sense of smell
about ten years ago. I am oblivious to almost all of the odors they produce. I also
can’t smell sweaty shin guards, old shoes, or nasty socks. It’s a blessing.
Really.
9. Balls. Lots of them. I’m constantly
tripping over soccer balls, tennis balls, inflatable balls, and little rubber
bouncy balls, but these aren’t the only kind of balls I’m talking about. Boys
are obsessed with balls, especially their own. They love talking about them,
scratching them, and sometimes just sticking their hands in their pants to
reassure themselves that they are still there. I’ve observed this in adult males as
well. Boys also love making jokes about balls and other parts of the male and
female anatomy. Girls don’t seem to find this quite as amusing. There is
nothing even remotely funny about a uterus.
10. Which brings me to my final point. I’m
so glad I have boys. Girls seem much more complicated. They have all sorts of feelings, and although boys are hormonal,
girls take it to a whole new level. An annoying level. A scary level. My boys
are basically always pretty nice to me. They have their moments, of course, but
compared to some of the teenaged girls I’ve observed, they are a walk in the
park. Another bonus, they aren’t interested in stealing my clothing. If
anything, they are terrified that the unisex sweatshirt I offered to lend them
might be (gasp) a “girl” shirt. They
approach it with the same caution and wariness an Amazonian would a brightly
colored snake in the jungle. Perhaps poking it with a stick a few times to make
sure it won’t bite. My husband’s
clothing, on the other hand, is open game - especially his socks. In a valiant
effort to protect the last few pairs of sports socks he possessed that weren’t
grass stained and pair-less, he hid an entire stash in his closet. The boys
sniffed them out in minutes. Nothing is sacred.
There are so many things I haven’t
mentioned. Their sudden hairiness. The way they can break furniture just by
sitting on it. The wrestling. The noise. The endless episodes of South Park. They
might seem like a pack of St. Bernard puppies at the moment, but they are
growing into interesting, amazing, and caring men. I’m just glad I got to go
along for the ride.
