I Am Not Ashamed

I am not ashamed, because it is not my shame to carry. They don't seem to think it's theirs, either, but I'm taking pictures today. Lots of them! Then some day, when things are on the line, I'm going to pull out this lovely sort of box and say to everyone there, "I'd like to share something with you about these boys!" And then I'll show everyone and my boys, they'll be appalled, I know it. Because deep down, they're very good boys. Good hearts and all that. They're just a little gross right now, and foolish hope allows me to hang on believing that some day this will all change.

In the meantime, I want you to know that I'm very, very sorry if you happen to step in a puddle in my bathroom. Because I just can't make any promises.

For now, meet my very best friend. I need her, and she makes my life infinitely better a hundred times a day.

Life With Boys

As I sit here, trying to read a nice, brainless romance novel, a sound erupts from behind me.

Joey, who is ten, says immediately, "It wasn't me."

Noah, who is seven, cries indignantly, "Yes, it was! It wasn't me!"

Joey says, "OK. Maybe it was me."

Noah: "It totally was you. It just flew out of you. Disgusting."

I'm appalled by Noah's disgust, because there are many times it is him, and it seems awfully lofty of him to imply otherwise. But next I'm appalled by this conversation at all, regular as it is. I think of my older sister and the sorts of mundane conversations we had growing up. The everyday sort, where outsiders wouldn't understand and might think we were crazy or weird. And we wouldn't care if they did.

Never, ever did my sister and I talk Farts.

Never, ever was there a question of whodunit.

It doesn't matter how much I tell them, my boys, that farting is rude and if it should happen to slip out, we shouldn't make a joke of it, for God's sake. We should be cool about it. Or try.

My boys are not cool.

They are loud. They are giggly. They are weird. They are rowdy. They launch themselves off of everything. They create smells and then talk about them. Analyze them. They do not walk. They run. They thunder. They do not talk. They shout. Sometimes, they scream like little girls. They cannot keep their hands to themselves. They never stop moving. They break things.

My father grew up in a house with four boys. I only have three, but I remember a lifetime of my father's stories, which always emphasized how often my grandmother declared, "I can never have nice things!" I understand this now. A year ago I bought I lovely ceramic plate with coordinating candles. I adorned it with stones from the family cottage and placed it in the center of the coffee table. It's now on a high shelf beside dusty light sabers, an oversized magnet, confiscated water guns, and a crossbow.

In Disney World, Noah participated in the Star Wars show. "I need a light saber!" he moaned. "No," I said, with the calm and confidence of a mother who has seventeen light sabers hidden throughout the house, all purchased, received, and taken away from the recipient in a matter of fifteen minutes.

I am a teacher. I am a sister. I am an aunt with nieces. I am, in fact, a girl. I do not pretend to know what it would be like to have a daughter, or daughters. Best of luck to those of you who do.

What do I have? Confiscated plastic weapons. I have pushing and shoving. Farts and misplaced blame.

This morning there was of a friendly battle of sorts, and my 21-month-old son toddled after his brothers and shouted with wild abandon, "Run! Run! I run! Joey! Na-na! RUN!" The windows rattled, because boys' feet are made of cement blocks and boys are created by God with an energy to move those cement blocks at a hundred miles an hour.

Suddenly, Noah stood in front of me. "Can I ask for a hug?"

"OK," I said. We sat on the couch and he climbed in my lap and wrapped his skinny arms around my waist.

"I love you," he whispered, squeezing me. "Because you are always so warm and you smell good and you are the best mom in the whole entire world."

And then he ran off to rejoin the thunder. Somewhere, something crashed. Someone screamed. Someone shouted a not-so-reassuring, "We're OK!"

This is life with boys.