Thursday, November 4, 2010

Boys! Glorious Boys!

Being the mother of boys has its benefits, but the constant potty talk is not one of them.  I am so tired of the alphabet song stopping at “P,” followed by hysterical laughter.  I’m tired of the attention paid to “nuts.”  And, for the love o’ pete, please help me get through the “weiner” stage.  I appreciate that my boys will never have body image issues, what with their propensity for getting naked and calling attention to their body parts, but I could do without the bathroom vernacular.  And I’m afraid eventually we’re going to have to add soap as a food group – because if you have a dirty mouth, Mommy’s gonna clean it.

"Why do you need a hairbrush?
You don't have any hair!"
While I'm at home explaining the virtues of polite conversation, Hubby gets to go to work and talk to grown-ups all day.  His schedule has been crazy lately and we barely see each other, so we often catch up by phone during the day.  I know he works hard and he is stressed out, but I’d sell my grandmother in order to be able to drive a car that doesn’t play a constant loop of children’s songs.  (And why does it take me so long, on the few occasions when I am in the Swagger Wagon all by  myself, to realize that kids’ songs are on the radio and I’m singing right along to "Where is My Hairbrush.")  My multi-tasking tonight, for instance, was me trying to pee, talk on the phone, and answer my son’s incessant knocking at the door, at the same time.  While dinner was cooking.  And the baby was crying.  I realize I’ve just let all you non-mommies out there in on a little secret: Mommies pee and chat at the same time.  I’ve even been known to lock myself in the bathroom so I can send an email.

Halloween.  Sigh.  I have single-handedly had to deal with children whose sugar-consumption would send a normal person into a diabetic coma, but instead just gives them more energy. I don’t care what “the studies” say, sugar makes them crazy – like 50 lb. Tasmanian devils on Speed.  My strategy is to let them eat as much candy as they want until it makes them sick.  Remember how you overindulged on beer in college and swore you’d never drink again?  (until next weekend.)  That’s my theory regarding Halloween candy.  To top it off, I woke up the other morning to three piles of orange dog vomit.  It seems Farley got into the Fun Dip.  Of course, the previous owners of our home had white carpet.  In the classic words of my mother, “that thing picks up everything but men and money.” Only parents of girls would install white carpet.  It never had a chance with my family and I am actively seeking its replacement.

I was recently talking to a girl-mommy friend of mine.  We were discussing how our children enjoy doing art projects, and in particular, stamping.  I have self-inking stampers that I allow my little artiste to use.  My girlfriend lets her daughter use regular stamps, with an ink pad!  I asked her where she found a ink pad for her daughter to use, because I naturally assumed she had found a kid-friendly, washable one.  She said she bought one at the craft store.  Incredulous, I asked “does it come out?” 

“What do you mean,” she asked.

“Does it come out?  Of stuff,” I replied.

“What kind of stuff?” She was confused.

“Stuff!  Like the walls or the hardwood floors.” 

“Oh, see that’s why I was confused.  My daughter would never stamp on anything but the paper.”

This, I find laughable.  Medium likes to take the ink pad and treat it as if it’s a stamp.  Luckily I caught him in time and I was able to wash it out, but I was this close to having a permanent purple rectangle on my hardwood floor.

I love my boys and I love being a parent to boys.  I don’t think I was cut out to be a girl mommy.  But sometimes it blows my mind that I actually have to explain WHY we don’t  do certain things like lick the yoga mat at the gym, urinate in the trashcan, or chew gum we found on the underside of a restaurant table.  These are things I imagine (perhaps wrongfully,) that girl mommies don’t have to deal with.  Yes, I’m generalizing, and I certainly know many girls who do NOT fit this stereotype, but I think of girls as being clean, quiet, observers who will sit and color within the lines.  My little guys are running around with toenails that look like bat claws, and they tend to put superheroes in my refrigerator.  They are dirty little sand-eaters, but I love them. 

I can name more Monster Jam trucks and Nascar drivers than Disney princesses.  And I am okay with that.  After all, Medium told me the other day that there are five princesses:  
  1. Mommy
  2. Snow White
  3. Sleeping Beauty
  4. Princess & the Frog Princess
  5. Ariel
He’s right, of course. I remind them periodically that this house is only big enough for ONE princess.  And that would be me.

I must admit, however, that I draw the line at the Ultimate Fighting Championship.  While visiting friends recently, we got sucked into one of those wrestling shows.  I made a snide comment (surprise!) about how smart a particular wrestler looked, clad in shiny boy shorts, tattoos, and SOME teeth.  I was judging a book by its cover, because, as my college roommate used to say, I was put on this earth to criticize others. I am quite sure, however, that said wrestler and I would never have an intelligent conversation about literature and cinema and such.  I can do Monster Jam and Nascar, but I just can’t do the wrestling. I think I would even rather watch that Tinkerbell movie than watch Wrestling.  Maybe.  Well, it's a close call.

Guess where this toy was a few minutes ago!

Finally, am I the only one who feels a great sense of accomplishment when using the bulb syringe?  I love that thing.  Luuuuurrve it.  I love squeezing it, sticking it in little baby nostrils, releasing it when I hear that glorious slurping of snot, and finally squeezing its contents onto a tissue so I can look at the spoils of my excavation.  It’s common knowledge that new mommies take the baby blanket from the hospital – you know, the one with the turquoise and pink stripes.  And we take the teeny-tiny diapers and the petroleum jelly.  But man, that bulb syringe kicks *ss.  If I could use it on myself and never have to blow my nose again, I sooooo would.  (Before you ask, yes I’ve tried it.)  I guess what I’m saying is that this princess is happy to have a healthy balance of sass and snot in her life.

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Be nice, kids.