Most days I can tell you with pride that I am a mom of all boys. I’m the lone female, the queen of my castle – and I like it.
Boy Mom is a badge I wear and unlike those tacky sports buttons that leave unsightly holes in your clothes – this badge sticks to you the moment you birth your first son and it continues to stick even more firmly with every passing birth of another.
I can tell you with the exception of the knowledge I have gained of… ahem, how boy-parts sweat, for the most part being a Boy Mom is relatively fun.
Sure they’re a little rough-and-tumble. Sure I’ve had things break that I’d rather not have had broken.
Sure I’ve learned to love the Avengers movies and have all but given up ever having anyone to watch Legally Blond with (ever again in my life) but the trade offs are pretty great.
The other day the puppy-from-hell brought up a dead baby mole. Did I have to deal with it? Nope. I just hollered for one of the boys.
Using the riding lawn mower, moving snow with a horse-powered force, grilling food when I deem it “too cold” – these are all things I just take a hard pass on and the boys handle them for me.
Whoop, whoop – let’s hear it for the boys.
So most days – I’m a Boy Mom-badge-wearing, sure-you-can-watch-UFC-in-the living-room, yes,-Iron Man-is-probably-the-greatest-Avenger – kind of girl who is happy to double every recipe in hopes it feeds the demons.
Oh Lord, there’s a but.
Yes. Yes, there is.
But…. some days I feel like I am drowning in a testosterone-laden stew that smells like farts and whatever that smell is when I open their bedroom doors in the morning.
Some days I do NOT think it’s funny.
Some days I just do not give two craps about the burp that sounded like Morgan Freeman’s voice.
Some days… I feel s-e-v-e-r-e-l-y outnumbered. (Probably because I am. Yes, I realize. Thankyouverymuch. I’m not a moron…just keep reading.)
Those days when I cannot tolerate something I’m going to call “male incompetence” (not to be confused with impotence – not the same and my husband would NOT appreciate the confusion.)
Me: why couldn’t you push your stool in after you finished eating dinner?
Males in the House: what stool?
Me: OHMYGOD THE ONE YOU SAT ON WHILE YOU WERE EATING THAT IS NOW TWO FEET AWAY FROM THE PLACE IT NORMALLY SITS.
Me: seriously, what do you guys do to make your bathroom THIS dirty? Its disturbing. Do you even try to aim?
Males in the House: what? I don’t see anything.
Me: *gagging. Leaves to put on Hazmat suit.
And then…. example:
Me: *at my wits end, on the verge of tears*
Males in the House: ugh, it must be “that time” of the month. Watch out. Next stop, Crazy Town.
And then…that’s it. That’s when I look around and realize the pot of Hoodlum Stew that I am normally, so carefully trying to manage and keep from boiling over, has completely overtaken me.
I’ve somehow fallen in the pot and I’m looking up at this crew of penis-equipped demons that are laughing and burping and farting all while standing outside the pot and trying to stir me in.
On these days – being a Boy Mom is – well, sucky – for lack of a better term.
When you realize you are not only completely outnumbered but have entered a tag-team match with no one in your corner to tag – these are the days it’s rough.
When you feel like you have taken on battle after battle with your own children and now have a split lip and a bruised rib and a dislocated shoulder and you turn around to tag your spouse and realize he’s over there in the “boy corner” laughing about the smell of someone’s gas – it really and truly does make you wonder if Beyonce isn’t singing to All the Single Ladies to warn them rather than empower them.
This all being said – would I trade them?
Not all of them.
Not at once anyway.
After all, that snow isn’t going to move itself.
This post originally appeared on Hoodlum Stew