To be a mother of boys, you must possess a tomboy mentality, the patience of a saint, and an open line to God for the amount of times you have to send up prayers in a day. 😋
Let me preface this entry with the fact that I cried like a baby before both of my pregnancy ultrasounds. I was frantic with the thought my baby might be a girl. It was terrifying!
I am a boy mama, it’s just a fact. I absolutely love my stepdaughter but, again I’m wired to snips and snails, and puppy dog tails.
I was the little girl who wanted a go cart for my birthday and my knees were always scratched. I was always pushing my limits and climbing too high. Ive been a tomboy since birth.
I also have an open line to God. I always have and always will. You better be close to someone whose help you seek so often.
The patience of a saint, however, I am sorely lacking. Most days I’m ok handling the chaos caused by my 9-year-old and 5-year-old boys. Other days I find myself aghast and amused with the phrases that leave my lips. Only mothers of boys can understand and, maybe even laugh:
“Who peed on the floor? If I figure it out, you’re going to start cleaning the bathroom yourself.” Of course I know I’m full of it and so do they. I’m far too particular when it comes to the cleaning skills of anyone but me.
“Did you just fart?” I smile a little. I know he did because he laughs and pulls the covers over our heads. “Let’s hide mommy,” he says laughing as I gag.
“We don’t eat boogers. I don’t care if it’s yours or your brother’s.” That one is pretty self explanatory and disgusting.
“You don’t point that at other people and keep your hands off of it in public.” One word: Penis.
I could go on and on. Trust me, when you’re the mother of boys, you can talk all day about bodily functions.
Ah, they wear me out and try my patience but they are also the best part of my day everyday. Perhaps I’m a glutton for punishment or maybe I just enjoy the challenge. What ever the case may be, I wouldn’t trade my boys for any amount of sugar and spice and everything nice. If I did, I’d be writing this bemoaning cries of “He hurt my feelings,” laced with tears and tantrums. Not even a saint has the patience for that.