Category Archives: Boys!

Not playing is hard work

Posted on April 1, 2014 by Ice Scream Mama

From somewhere in the house, a voice cuts the quiet with a serrated edge…

“Mommy! Where are you? Mooooommeeeeeee!”

Don’t find me Don’t find me Don’t find me.

“MOMMY!”

Sigh. “I’m in the kitchen, honey.”

“Mommy. I want to play!”

Ugh. I really really don’t want to play. “I’m washing the dishes, baby.”

“Mommy! Come on! Pleeeeee e e ease.”

“How bout I set you up at the table and you can draw?”

A brief pause for consideration, followed by a fetching tilt of the head. “Will you draw with me?”

Sigh. “Maybe later. I’m washing the dishes right now.”

“But I wanna battle dragons and Skylanderrrs right nowww.”

I hate battling. Hate it. Hate it. “Why don’t you go play with your brothers in the basement?”

“They don’t want to play.”

Well, no duh. “You have to wait, honey. I’m busy. (Warning: Combination bribery and poor parenting ahead.) Hey, how bout I put on a show for you? Maybe get you some goldfish crackers while you watch?”

“No!” Followed by a drop to the floor and pulling on my pant leg, “I want to playyyyyyyy.”

Come oooon. Go a wa a a ay. “Seriously dude, find your brothers. That’s why you have brothers, so I don’t have to play.” Quizzical look of the 6 year-old followed by quick repositioning of the mother. “I mean, you and your brothers are kids. Kids are supposed to play. Mommy has work to do.”

Smug, happy little boy bouncing up and down. “You don’t work.”

Internal sneering, eye-twitching, but voice stays reasonable. “These dishes aren’t gonna wash themselves.”

Big manipulative, adorable smile, “How bout you play now and do dishes later?”

Sideways, raised brow – what-do-you-think-you’re-a first-kid – look. “How bout you go find your brothers.”

“They don’t want to play.”

“They do. Go ask them.”

“They’re playing one-on-one basketball.”

“Then you need to go play by yourself. Do your legos.”

“Will you do them with me?”

Time to fight fire with fire. “Will you wash dishes with me?”

Silence.

Whew. Finally, he’s going to play by himself.

Then he shrugs and starts dragging a chair over to the sink, smiling brightly. “Okay, and when we’re done we can battle dragons!”

I look left. I look right, but I am backed into a sink, I mean a corner.

Damn. I’ve been played.

Oh, we’re so doing this!

60 Comments

Posted in Boys! and tagged independent play, mommy doesn't want to play, parenting, playtime. Bookmark the permalink.

You say middle. I say center.

Posted on March 20, 2014 by Ice Scream Mama

When my middle son was born, he wasn’t yet my middle son, he was the baby. Yet even then, some of his strong characteristics seemed to foreshadow another baby in our future. Like tantrums. Serious tantrums that would leave us with our heads cocked like a retriever or wondering if he needed medical attention. And social acuity. He would chat up the postman, a dog walker, a teacher. He was always finding a lap to sit on that wasn’t necessarily mine. He was the boy I worried would happily get in the car for free candy. He didn’t even need the candy, just a ready ear for his chatty little mouth. And negotiation skills? Dang if that kid couldn’t sell a fur coat to a cat.

He had middle written all over him.

Two and a half years later, he officially was a middle child, and not just a middle child, a middle boy between two boys. Double whammy. I focused all my attention on giving him attention. I would ignore the baby in front of him and say things like, “He can wait. What do you need?”I carved out time especially for him. “Just you and me.” Wink wink. “Let’s go get donuts.” I allied myself with him. “We’re the only ones in the family with green eyes. We see better in the dark. We’re like super heroes.”

I thought that if I was careful of his feelings and was extra attentive, that we would sidestep the middle child syndrome altogether.

But he wouldn’t let me do it.

When I ignored the baby, he’d remind me that I should check on him. When I offered time alone, often he’d turn me down or enlist one of his brothers to come along. When I allied myself with him, he’d call me out. “That’s not true mommy.”

I wanted to protect him but the more I focused on him, the more he fought it off. It was like he already had a shield of armor around his heart which pretty much broke mine. I thought I had sealed his fate and he was punishing me.

But really he was unconsciously fighting against this notion that there was something wrong with him or at least his lot in life. Always the defender of justice, he wanted what the other boys got, no more, no less.

I had made a mistake. I was so worried, I was over doing it. He fit in just fine with his own unique gifts; his own strengths and weaknesses.

There is nothing wrong with being a middle child. It’s the center of things. And that’s usually where he is in most situations, right in the center. If his older brother is having an argument, he’ll interject himself into it. If his younger brother is vying for another snack, he’ll point out why I should give him one. If there’s a playdate somewhere, he needs to be on it.

He’s the only one of my children to really put himself out there and take chances. He’s the bold one; the one who will try things (Well, except food, but that’s a whole different topic.), the one who speaks his mind; who isn’t afraid of mistakes. He’s super stubborn, independent, responsible, a skillful manipulator, sensitive and full of fire.

No matter the labels, my kid knows who he is.

He is my baby.

And he’s right where he belongs.

Beginning, middle and end of story.

Tomorrow the center of boys and my heart is nine.

The center of my boys and my heart is turning nine.

45 Comments

Posted in Boys! and tagged birth order, middle son, parenting, the middle child, three boys. Bookmark the permalink.

Go the F%$! to sleep. Oh, fine. One more hug.

Posted on March 18, 2014 by Ice Scream Mama

“Mama!” I hear him yell from his bedroom; his need finding me, even though I’m downstairs in the kitchen cutting an apple for my older son.

“Mama!” He yells again and I roll my eyes. I’ve specifically told him not to call for me, that I will be there shortly.

Even at six years-old, lying with him at night is a non-negotiable. I love it more than it annoys me, which I repeatedly remind myself as his calls become more insistent.

I could enjoy relaxing with him more if I didn’t feel anxious about also getting the other boys into bed. If I didn’t hear the loud tick-tock of the clock in my head, announcing with every beat that it’s getting later and later; that I won’t have any time for myself and my husband, that they will not get enough sleep, that they are stomping on my last nerve and I might just snap, ruining a perfectly good day in the very last minutes.

I finish slicing and trudge upstairs to my oldest son’s room where he is reading a Tom Green book and happy for the snack. I note that he is fully dressed, and even though I’d rather he be studying his vocabulary for a test tomorrow, I hold my tongue on both counts. He’s eleven. I need to cut him some slack. Besides, I’ve told him twice already.

I stop in my middle guy’s room to tell him to stop shooting basketballs and get in bed. He continues shooting, so I tense, preparing for battle. “Just let me make this shot!” He bargains, sensing the imminent loss of his ball. I accept his compromise thankfully, confrontation averted.

Finally, I head to my youngest son’s room. He’s hiding under his covers, preparing to jump out and shout ‘BOO!’ He does it every night. I used to feign surprise but now I just tousle his head. “Boo yourself.”

“I wasn’t supposed to call for you.” He admits. “But I did.”

“I heard you.” I say, pushing a long dark curl away from his face.

“But you took sooooo long.” He complains.

“You were supposed to be relaxing.” I scold, but not really.

He nuzzles closer, unzipping the extra sweatshirt I’m always wearing because even in the house I’m cold, and tucks his little arms in and around me.

“Stay for 10 minutes.” He coos, snuggling his face against my chest.

He still loves squishing into my boobs. Since he was three, he’s been trying to cop a feel.

“Two minutes.” I whisper, feeling my insides go mushy at the soft curve of his cheek, the long lashes, and pouty mouth. With his eyes closed, he still looks so much the baby and I tenderly kiss his fat cheek that’s not as chubby as it used to be.

“Mama!” My middle son yells. “Tickle!”

“One minute.” I call out.

My baby instinctively pulls me closer. “No, not yet.”

I pet his head and kiss him again, knowing it’s time to go, wanting to go, but afraid of the day he’ll just let me, so we cling to each other a little more.

“Mama.” I hear the voice of my oldest. “Come.”

I really want them all to be sleeping. It’s late. I’m tired. I want to relax and watch Modern Family. But I can’t stop myself from taking the moment to baby each one of them; to remind them that they’re still little and special and mine.

It’s time to go, and I gently but forcibly extract myself.

There are still two more rooms to visit.

Such a faker

47 Comments

Posted in Boys! and tagged bedtime, go to sleep, growing up, nighttime rituals, parenting. Bookmark the permalink.

The boy who cried boo boo

Posted on February 20, 2014 by Ice Scream Mama

I see the number for the school displayed on my cell, and it immediately triggers a small spike of anxiety. Quickly I detach my feet from my spin bike and hurry from the class. Once outside the dark, loud room, I answer, and a familiar voice greets me.

“Hi. It’s Nurse Judy.” Of course. I knew it.

“Everything’s all right.” She continues. It’s part of school nurse etiquette to say everything is alright within the first five seconds.

I am both relieved and annoyed. It’s the third time this week that my middle son’s visits to the nurse have elicited a call home.

“I have your son here. He’s complaining of a headache.” The resignation in her voice is second only to my own.

Last week, it was a stomach ache. The week before that his elbow hurt, an old cut on his finger bothered him and his loose tooth was “so annoying”.

He’s always been somewhat sensory, and in kindergarten and first grades often spent lunches at the nurse. He didn’t like all the noise. The smells would make him nauseous. There were random daily visits as well, and I knew that his brain just needed a little break. So it was Nurse Judy or the bathroom. And although I don’t know how often he makes trips to the bathroom, I won’t be surprised the day Nurse Judy calls recommending a pediatric urologist.

By second grade, Nurse Judy and I were speaking far less often, and I had dreams of a well-adjusted child who might someday eat foods that were a color other than white. As it turns out, my enthusiasm was a bit premature. Now halfway through third grade, it seems we’ve taken some steps backwards and they’ve led right back to Nurse Judy’s office.

What to do, what to do with the boy who cries boo boo?

Sometimes, I worry that I’m quick to push aside his complaints, but then he comes home begging for a play date and asking for macaroni and cheese, and I think, “Aha!” I was right. Still, I’ve all too often watched a kid zoom around like a happy monkey all day only to spend the night with a high fever and vomit. With kids, it can be hard to tell.

Just last week, his frequent nurse visits and random nighttime complaints, often a subtle warning for the next day’s nurse’s call, finally wore away at my mommy worry and guilt, resulting in a day off from school and a visit to the pediatrician.

“What’s wrong?” The doctor asked.

Both my son and I looked at each other, my boy barely repressing his amused smile.

“Well, he has a headache.” I said, secretly trying to inflict some pain by shooting daggers at him.

“But not all the time.” My son interjected happily.

“And a stomachache.” I said.

“But much less now.” He chimed in again.

“He complained of a sore throat this morning.” I added, feeling stupid.

“Yeah, and sometimes my legs hurt, and my cut on my finger really kills!” He waved his finger dramatically.

Oh no. The doctor looked at us like Mrs. Munchausen and baby Hypochondriac. “I see.” He said, and I could see that he did.

After a strep test that I made my son get because he hates it but also because someone in his class had strep and I’ve seen it present as a stomachache, headache and sore throat came back negative, we skipped out of there and headed straight to Dunkin Donuts.

His smiling eyes twinkled as he chomped down on his rainbow tie-dyed donut, and I watched him with a mixture of adoration and pride. Yes, I had been conned. He wasn’t physically sick, but mental health is equally important.

Apparently, this was just the medicine my kid needed.

I’m sick. Really.

36 Comments

Posted in Boys! and tagged kids playing sick, mental health days, parenting, sick kids, the school nurse. Bookmark the permalink.

Help

Posted on January 27, 2014 by Ice Scream Mama

He walked out from the school, his backpack slung behind him looking sweetly melancholy or merely just exhausted. It was hard to tell in the dark.

Usually, my husband did this late night Hebrew school pick-up, but tonight he was working late. So at 8:10pm, I was in the car on a cold night with my two younger boys instead of in the middle of our stalling before bed routine, probably somewhere between whining for snacks and whining to brush teeth.

When he opened the car door, the noise of his brothers tackled him and he flung the door too hard and hit his hand on the car parked next to us. Not too bad, but enough to make him grimace. He didn’t cry. Instead, he decided to inflict some pain on his brothers. “You guys have nothing better to do than yell and play video games!” He lashed out at them. “Can’t you do anything else?”

“You okay?” I asked, a little concerned by the desperation in his voice.

He just nodded but didn’t say anything more.

Back in the house two minutes, he lost it again when his youngest brother complained that he pilfered one of his goldfish crackers. “You’re so sensitive!” he yelled and then stomped into his room.

Uh oh. Something was wrong and it wasn’t the hand.

I got the two younger boys in the shower and went in to see my oldest son. His room was dark and he was lying under his covers fully dressed, clutching a favorite old dinosaur toy, feigning sleep.

“Baby?” I questioned and rubbed his back soothingly. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” He muttered.

“I can tell something’s wrong. Please tell me.”

“Nothing’s wrong.” He insisted; his eyes squeezed closed so not to face me, his mouth twitching emotion.

I sat next to him in silence, studying his heartbreakingly sweet face obviously in the midst of some internal struggle. Do I respect his space or probe deeper? Where is that parenting book when you need it?

“Did you get in trouble in class?” I asked gently.

He shook his head.

“Did you get into a fight with someone?”

More shaking.

“Were you embarrassed or hurt in some way?” I persisted.

“Stop!” He almost cried, burying his face in his pillow. “You’re making it worse.”

I guess I should have chosen space.

“Okay.” I conceded. “I’m sorry. I just want to help.”

I rubbed his back a little longer; not wanting to leave him, dying to know what was upsetting him, but uncertain what to do. The idea that someone would put him in this emotionally vulnerable place was too much for me. No one was allowed to hurt my baby.

“You can’t help.” He said into his pillow.

What? Untrue! I can help! I need to help. I’ve always been able to help. Don’t shut me out, I wanted to cry. Instead, I left him to get the other boys into bed; the ones whose biggest problems were if I had pirate booty to give for snack the next day and if I could secure a good play date.

By the time I came back to his room, he was asleep.

But I would be up all night.

Back when it was easy… sigh.

41 Comments

Posted in Boys!, Crap that makes me eat too much ice cream, Middle School and tagged communicating with children, communicating with tweens, getting shut out, parenting, tweens. Bookmark the permalink.

You’ll grow up when I’m good and ready

Posted on January 15, 2014 by Ice Scream Mama

“Hey, baby.” I say to my eleven year-old. It’s what I call my boys, except my middle son, who at four would already reprimand me for calling him baby. “I’m not a baby.” He’d growl, to which I’d reply, “You’re my baby.” He never accepted my answer and would yell at me whenever I slipped.

Not so with my oldest. He’s always embraced both being a baby and being my baby.

I can’t say I don’t love it, but at times I worry if I’ve made his comfort zone too comfortable; if I’ve babied my baby too much.

“You want to call a friend to come over?” I ask.

He’s curled up in his favorite chair, wrapped in a blanket for comfort not warmth, a bowl of popcorn at his feet watching Austin and Ally on television. He barely turns his head toward me when he answers, “Nah. I’m good.”

“Are you sure?” I ask, walking to the chair and squatting down next to him.

At my closeness, he immediately leans over and nuzzles his head against my body. I give him a squeeze and kiss his head. Ah. My baby.

“I’m good.” He says again, opening his arms for a hug, which I happily embrace.

It’s his downtime. He works hard at school, homework and sports, so I don’t mind him relaxing if that’s what makes him happy.

He craves home, while my middle son craves independence. At eight, he’s already a social animal, and has secured a friend to come over. After his play date, it is not unusual for him to ask for another.

Sometimes, I worry a bit that my oldest is too happy nestled in his chair while his more socially developed friends spend more time bonding and making connections. I worry about him being left behind. Even, shallowly, about not being cool. I want, what I think, most parents want, for him to have an easy run through middle and high school. To fit in. To be well-liked.

“Mommy?” He asks, as I give his head one last tousle and rise to leave him. “Can you bring me water?”

I struggle with wanting to push him out there and pull him back in. I struggle with wanting to do things for him and for him to do them himself. Push. Pull.

He’s eleven. Maybe that’s the age where they need to mature. Almost all of his friends are texting and addicted to Instagram. Quite a few are already into girls. At the moment, my beautiful, sweet son remains blissfully unaware of the social tornado going on all around him.

But probably not for very long.

“Okay, baby.” I say.

His happy place

52 Comments

Posted in Boys!, Middle School and tagged growing up, parenting, tweens. Bookmark the permalink.

My children are perfect, and always will be.

Posted on September 17, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

My children are perfect.

Right now, one is stomping up the stairs in a fit of temper. I asked him to go to his room to cool off, but mid-way, he has decided not to give me that satisfaction.

“You want me to go to my room?” He huffs. “Then I think I’ll stay right here!”

So now he’s back, fuming. His big, green eyes bright with insult.

“So, stay right here.” I say agreeably, refusing to be drawn into his tantrum.

“Oh, you want me to stay here? Then I’m going to my room!” He yells and stomps back up the stairs.

I keep my smile on the inside, but little bits of it come out in the upturn of my mouth.

The minute he is gone from the room, my little one, five now, not really so little, jumps in front of me, pulling on my arm, dancing around me annoyingly. “Mama! I want you to play legos with me. Now! Can we play now?”

He’s biting the neckline of his shirt, exactly like I’ve asked him not to do a thousand times. I don’t want to play legos, but his little face is insistent. He is desperate to play, clenching the shirt tightly between his teeth, squinting his eyes real hard, hoping his wish will be answered, that I will not say, “wait” for the third time, that I will just play, which I do, but not without a heavy sigh. Did I mention I really don’t want to play?

My oldest son bounds in like a puppy. “Mommy? Can you get me a snack?” I should tell him to get it himself.

He’s eleven, but I’m all too happy to be released from lego prison. Besides, he may be my oldest but he’s my least responsible; more likely than my five year-old to spill his cup of water or rip open a bag of pretzels to drop right to the floor like pick-up sticks. Right now, I’m trying not to notice that his tee shirt is both inside out and backwards.

I come back to find him happily engaged with my youngest. They are soaring their creations around each other, complete with battle sound effects. I place the pretzels and drink down, and hear my middle son storming down the stairs. He pauses when we make eye contact, just long enough to growl at me.

These three boys, so different, physically, emotionally, developmentally; each with their strengths and weakness, yet, there are moments I am blown away by their absolute perfection; their eyes full of hope, their growing psyches, their innocence and their honesty, their flawless youth.

They are not tainted by the world, have not suffered crushing rejections and disappointment. They have not been stripped of their pride, had to learn real life lessons, had their dreams shattered around them. Their lives are open, their paths, a journey and an adventure. They are beautiful in their possibility and their promise.

They are as children should be. Perfect. Untainted. And I try not to get emotional, when I realize the inevitable; that they will grow, and become people. People with baggage. It breaks my heart a little, but then I remember, they will always be perfect, because they will always be my babies.

Perfect. Perfect. Perfect.
Poo. Poo. Poo.

48 Comments

Posted in Boys!, Every Day Scoops and tagged always be my babies, growing older, growing up, parenting, perfect children. Bookmark the permalink.

I laff at the Inglish langwige

Posted on June 6, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

“You know, I’ve been thinking…” My 10 year-old says, as we drive home from my niece’s party.

I immediately perk up. This kind of open is usually a prelude to something interesting. The last time he started a sentence that way, what followed was, “… War is stupid. Why do all those people have to fight and die? Why don’t only the two leaders fight, and then just one person has to die.”

Alert the White House. This boy is on to something.

“So,” he continues, and I wait for what’s been swirling around in that adolescent brain of his. “The letter G sounds like Juh but it really should be Guh.”

I have no idea what he’s talking about. So I say, “I have no idea what you are talking about. G makes the Guh sound.” But then, as I said it, I totally got what he was saying.

“Oh you mean the letter G sounds like Jee, even though phonetically it makes the Guh sound, like Go. So you think the letter G should really be pronounced gee?” (Like geek, but without the k. Stay with me here, we’re in the mind of a 10 year-old.)

Through my rear view mirror I see he is nodding like a bobble head and smiling like he thinks he’s the smartest boy in the world. Which, of course, he is.

I point out that G does also sound like Jee, as in, this is genuinely confusing, and he points out that, that sound has already been covered by the letter J. Touche.

This whole thing gets us going on just how ridiculous the English language is. I honestly don’t know what people were smoking when they started putting it all down on paper, I mean parchment. So much of it is an exception to a rule, and the rules don’t even make sense.

Forget why is it, I before E, except after C…why is there ever an ie? We in the minivan don’t get it.

I mean, why isn’t Pierce – Peerce

And what’s with CK endings? Why can’t it just be K?

As in, “It makes no fuking sense!”

I know you don’t miss the C. And speaking of C, we decided that it’s not even necessary as a letter. C just sounds like K or S. Try these on for size. Kantelope. Sentury. Nise, right?

K is for Kookie!
image credit- muppet.wikia.com

And what’s with the silent letters in words? Why do we need silent letters at all!? Lisen, it’s the elefant in the room, peeple! Let’s just get it out in the open.

There’s seriously so much wrong with our language, and when you’re teaching a five year-old to read, it’s glaring.

That’s why my sun (Sorry, the ‘o’ makes no sense. Plus, he really is the sun) and I decided to come up with a slightly modified version of the alphabet. It’s not much, but it’s a start.

Here it is – A B D E F G (pronounced geek without the k ) H I J K L M N O P Qu R S T U V W (now properly pronounced WubleU) X Y (pronounced Yi not Wi) Z*

My kid is so getting kicked out of kindergarten.

To see my son preform the new alphabet go to my facebook page.

33 Comments

Posted in Boys! and tagged cookie monster, hooked on phonics, humor, learning abc's, learning English, learning to read, my son is a genius, Yeah write. Bookmark the permalink.

All Hail Mama’s Boys

Posted on May 9, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

Before my son even opens his eyes in the morning, his arms are reaching for a hug. I happily embrace his warm body, and his sleepy smile could wake the sun. “Come on, baby.” I coo. “It’s time.”

He purrs like a kitten instead of a 10 year-old boy, and when I detach myself, he pouts, “Nooo.”

“Nope. No more hugs. Get on up.” I shake him till he giggles, then play time is over and I turn to business. “Your clothes are on the floor. Brush your teeth and get downstairs.” I leave him and hope I don’t have to make a trip back up to wake him again.

My five and eight year-olds are already dressed and downstairs, finished with their breakfasts and playing a computer game in their time before school, when my oldest sleepwalks into the kitchen and immediately attaches himself to my side. “Mama.”

I love it, like the sick, needy mother I am, and take a moment to lean my head against his before ushering him into his morning routine.

Occasionally, some person has the nerve to say to me, “Oh you have three boys? You know boys, they leave.” I always respond with a smug smile and say, “Not if you do it right.”

And although I believe that, it still touches a nerve, because to some extent, of course, it’s true. Boys love their mommies, until they get a wife. Boys are so affectionate when they are young, but somewhere along the way, they seem to detach. No. That will not do at all. That’s why I have worked hard to make my boys ‘mama’s boys,’ and they have pretty much towed the line, but the results vary.

My youngest is a wild child, full of love and energy. Even if he really isn’t one anymore, he’s the baby and he still acts like one, cuddling and preferring mommy’s company to any other. Score! My middle son has got the most spunk and fight in him, but he’s also a clingy little monkey around his mommy’s neck. Score!

But my oldest, has by far, exceeded my mama boy expectations. A sentimentalist at heart, wistful at five for who he was at four, he is openly expressive in his emotions and affections and really, really, really loves his mommy. Homerun!

I worry a little that I’m ruining my boys for all the girls, but, only a little. Because, we all know that the best men are the ones who love and respect their mothers. Eventually, poo poo poo (sorry it’s the future Jewish grandma in me), my boys will grow up and leave to have their own lives and children. While I sort of dread the day when my reign comes to an end, I will quietly – although it will be hard to muffle all of my sobbing – step back and do my best to win over their significant others. Really, what else can I do?

Often, at the end the day, my oldest son gets off the bus from school and runs straight to me, wrapping his arms around me, and says, “It’s been six hours since I hugged my mommy.”

My other boys, their competitive natures stirred, jump in for the hug.

These boys are going to break my heart.

Hope everyday is Mother’s Day!

43 Comments

Posted in Boys! and tagged a son is a son until he gets a wife, i love my boys, letting go of your kids, loving children, mama's boys, mother's of boys. Bookmark the permalink.

What’s a Girl to do? Act like a Boy.

Posted on May 2, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

If there are any boys reading this, please stop immediately. This is not about you. It’s for girls’ eyes only. Really, no big deal. You’re not missing anything. In fact, I think there’s a ball game on. Yep. And I left some chips on the table as well. That’s right, go on. Good boy.

Okay. Now that we’re alone, I’ve got something to tell you guys, uh, girls. I honestly can’t believe I’m going to say this, because it goes against some deep rooted beliefs, not to mention the dynamic of my marriage, but, brace yourselves – there are actually a few areas where girls could learn a thing or two from the boys. I know, I know. But, it’s true. Being the mom to three boys has taught me, that we ladies are not always right. Oh, man. Did I just admit that out loud?

Well now that I’ve gone and said it, I might as well give it you. Who knows, maybe one of you will actually listen and wind up a happier person. BAHAHAHAHA! Anyway, here’s my top five areas where I believe the boys have got us beat.

1. R E L A X I N G

I rush around, preparing them to catch the bus, ushering them to put on their shoes, finish their food, get in the car, while they meander about, moving in slow motion and half hearing my panicked pleas. It’s like they just don’t care if they’re late to school or a game or to pick up daddy at the train! They have an internal clock and it is set on laid back. While I think their time management kind of sucks, I am the stressed out one, and they are smiling goofs as I tornado around them in a storm of efficiency.

2. And on that note… Delegating

Work smarter, not harder. I don’t know any guy who gave up his chance at marriage and kids by being the office schmuck, but I do know a few girls. They’re really smart girls too, always willing to stay later, to prove themselves, to get it done right, and most importantly, to do it all themselves. For some reason, girls don’t like to share, even work. I guess, it’s because we think we do everything better. And, ahem, even if that’s generally true, the boys are doing less and walking away with more.

3. Confidence

Day in, day out, I am semi-consumed with my weight and my appearance. I study how my arms flab out, my skin gets pink and prickly, or how my stomach no longer seems completely attached to my stomach, but my boys, even the adult one, seem blissfully content as they pounce around naked, happily displaying themselves. Boys just beat each other up. We beat ourselves up.

4. Appearance

“Here, wear this.” I throw some sweats and a tee shirt at my son. He grabs it off the floor without looking and puts it on. I do that every morning to each kid, and each kid accepts my offering, in exactly the same manner, without complaint or interest. There is no feet stomping, laying out outfits days before, or refusal to wear any color other than ‘purple’. There’s no, I just must have Ugg Boots and Lululemon pants or I won’t fit in! (Oh wait, that was me). Boys don’t define themselves by what they are wearing, or use it to make themselves or others feel inadequate. Clothes are just clothes. Although, I would appreciate if they made the effort to at least not wear them inside out or backwards.

5. Simply Simple

Comparing boys to girls of the same age is like comparing kittens to cubs. They are both cuddly and cute, but the girls have claws and are dangerous, while the boys are just spitting puffs of fur. As the boys run, skip, barrel and roll all over the place, the girls are slowly licking their paws and stalking their prey. Sometimes, it’s nice to stop the grooming and calculation and just jump on the pile up. Roll around, get dirty, and say what you want! “I need to poop!” might be the frequently verbalized expression in my house, followed closely by “Mommy, can you get me…” And “I need a hug.”

There’s not a lot to figure out there.

Of course, my boys (besides the grown-up one) haven’t hit puberty yet, so this can all change in a few short hormones. But I think these generalities are actually pretty standard, just as, what just happened in my house a minute ago.

Boy 1 – Mom, can you get me a snack?

Boy 2 – Mom, can you find my other sneaker?

Boy 3 – Mom, I need to Poop!

And there I go, getting snacks, finding sneakers and appreciating his shit. So I’d say, for everything I know, I pretty much haven’t learned a thing.

Crap.

Forget I said anything.

He’s sexy and he knows it! Dirt pile, here he comes!

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Posted in Boys! and tagged act like a man, boys will be boys, gender roles, girls will be girls, lessons from our children, man up, what's a girl to do?. Bookmark the permalink.

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