I Have Boys

I have boys; specifically, I have a husband, two sons, a dog and two cats—all of them of the male biological and gender species. To understand the extent of my particular situation, you must know I grew up with predominately women, a single mother, girl cousins save one, aunts and grandmothers and great-grandmothers—all of them my primary influences and with whom I shared my most significant memories. I even married a man who in many ways (his propensity for shopping and shoes, for example) is a stereotypical woman. When I got married and planned children, I assumed I’d have daughters. Girls are who I know, why wouldn’t I have a whole house full of them?

Physicists would say I was out of balance; Psychologists would say my inner child was looking to heal old wounds; Spiritualists would say my soul was searching for a part of myself that was missing. I don’t care who says what or why, all I know is I’m the one sitting in pee when I go to the bathroom, not them.

I pass gas and it’s a monumental occasion needing to be marked with song and proclamation: “It’s Mommy Farty-Pants!” or “Somebody farted, woo-oo, somebody farted, woo-oo!” and my favorite, “Watch your nose, boys, Captain farts is in the house!”

I crash my car in Mario Kart I get the, “Mom what are you thinking?” or the more compassionate dig, “Jeez, Mom, I think you need some more practice.”

I make an unpopular meal or wear my hair or an article of clothing in a way they don’t like: “Not a fan of the dinner/lunch/hair/sweater/etc., Mom. Go a different way next time.”

Understand, of course, that when their father passes gas or loses a game or makes an ass out of himself wearing a ridiculous shirt or the same jeans for five days or a hat that makes his head look like a bowling ball, he gets none of it. NONE of it.

When I get home, it’s, “Hey, Mom.” Even the dog sits, lets me pet him, then runs to the back door, the cats don’t even lift their heads to notice a human five feet taller than them has entered, let alone the one who feeds them and cleans their litter box. When their father gets home the children scream and beat each other down trying to be the first to greet him. The dog wags himself in half he’s so excited; even the cats come and rub him on the leg to express how glad they are he’s home.

What the hell is this? Some kind of penis club? I have no desire to have a penis, let alone have envy of one, but this little conspiracy has just about run its course in my patience barometer.

Last night I lost at Uno and it was an all out commentary of trash talk that started with, “OOOooo, look who lost this time!” ending with, “Not such a champion tonight, are you mom?” They tackled me, one zerberting my back the other sitting on my legs slapping the crap out of my butt. Between crying in laughter I shouted, “WHY? Why do you do this to me???”

The little one pulled my pants partway down and said, “Look I made your butt red!” The older one literally fell of the bed laughing, my husband was crying he was laughing so hard, the dog, well at least the dog had the decency to sleep through my humiliation.

After the laughter died down and the happy tears dried I said, “No, really, WHY?”

“Because we love you, Mom,” the older one said.

“Yeah,” the younger one agreed.

I raised my eyebrows, my husband nodded and smiled and non-verbally said, “See? I told you.”

They dealt the cards and started a new game as if none of the craziness had ever happened. My stinging ass and perplexed brain did not understand nor agree, but what choice did I have?

“Deal me in” I said.

“You’re going down, Mom.”

“We’ll see about that!” I replied.

I proceeded to win the next two games, including the last game, which brings with it All Time Champion status. As I did my victory dance they said, “Whatever, Mom, let’s go read our story,” and they walked out of the room, all of them: the kids, the husband, and even the dog.

I stood alone basking in my victory even more confused than ever. These boys consider butt slapping and fart songs and trash talk forms of endearment? They celebrate the losses of others but not their victories? They sing songs about farts and make fart sounds with their mouths and this is all funny? They pee with as much abandon as they run after a ball and they would rather give me five when I pick them up from school than give me a hug and a kiss? Who are these creatures?

My only answer? My family. This mass of testosterone is my family and as much as I likely will never understand them, there are two things for certain: one, I love them; two, there better be granddaughters in my future.