Woo hoo! Caught your attention. (All three of you who read this once in a while.)
Boogers, pee-pees and underwear stains. So is the life of a mom surrounded by all boys. Nasty stuff, as I’ve said before. And that’s all from dad.
Ha ha …. just kidding.
But those boyish adjectives were just to lure you in for the real gruesome story of how I found out I was having another boy. No, I’m not prego. I’m talking about when Little Man was a-growin’ in the wonderful womb. I’m talking about 2006-which feels like, oh, I don’t know, 10 years ago.
It’s time to fess up about that one time in the hospital when I broke down in the first-floor ladies room and cried in the stall because the thing in my belly had a penis and I already had three things at home with a penis and I kinda wanted to have at least one without a penis and this was that moment when the world crushed my almost 160-pound body into the ground and stomped on it. Fetus and all. Because let me tell you, when mama’s got a baby growing inside her and all her dreams and visions have been of a new baby room decorated in Alice and Wonderland characters, complete with a caterpillar smoking a hookah pipe, and you go and tell her it’s got a penis, well, the tears start. And when the tears start on a fat girl in the bathroom at the hospital, it ain’t good. People stare. People want to comfort you and say it’s OK and want to rub your belly. And you don’t want no nasty stranger in the bathroom rubbing your belly to calm the fear that another dirty man is entering your life and you’ll never have those fun girly talks and moments like you and your mom had. Then you realize you never had those warm, fun girly talks with your mom, it really was your dad. But that’s another story, and one that might be at the heart of why you want a girl so bad and obviously can’t physically have one. It’s payback time, just like your dad told you when you found out you were having your second boy. Since he had four girls to raise and a wife and all the dogs were bitches, too. Poor man was surrounded. So yeah, it’s payback time. So don’t touch me, freaky lady. I’m fine. I’m just having another boy and it’s all of a sudden time to realize a girl just ain’t part of the plan.
So yeah. That’s how my mind worked that day and every day since then when people see me out in public and say, “Oh, you have three boys. It takes a special mom to deal with that,” or “Are you gonna try for a fourth to get your girl?” Then I smile and say, “Hell no. You kidding me? These kids are my pride and joy. I love them so much my heart (and uterus) would burst if I had another kid.” When really what I am thinking is “Is it any of your f’n business what reproductive plans I have? I think not, you freak. And even if I had another kid, which is so unlikely to ever happen since my husband swears he’d rather cut his eyelids off with fingernail clippers than have another screamer in the house, it would so be another boy and I’d so have that mental breakdown I’ve been meaning to have. So yeah. Piss off.” *Smile*
So how else can I tell you how wonderful these kids are? I should explain that that little mental breakdown I call “My Moment” didn’t last long. All of about five minutes. Then I was thinking about how lucky I am to NEVER have to have a bitchy, bratty, hormonal daughter tell me she hates me like I know I did to my mother. Of course, my kids are already saying mean things to me and slamming doors, but in my mind, at least they aren’t girls and they’ll never have periods and never come home pregnant at 17 and never complain about how fat they are getting. These are boys. I was meant to have boys. Shit. I was TOTALLY meant to have boys. Boogers, pee-pees, underwear stains and all. How else could this have played out? I love football. I can kinda play football. I’m REALLY bad at baseball, but that’s OK. I’m staying away from the entire pitching thing and I can’t catch a ball and I don’t know how those stupid mitts work, but I can throw a football. Did I already say that? And I took my husband to his first pro football and pro hockey games. That’s gotta mean something. And I took him to the Pro Football Hall of Fame when we were dating. I’m like the best freakin’ girlfriend/wife/mother around.
I know how to deal with boy stuff. Like the other day when I screamed at the top of my lungs for whichever brat left his freakin’ clothes on the floor in the LIVING ROOM in front of the TV to get the hell out here and pick them up to only then hear Middle Man scream, “Are there stains in the underwear? If so, they’re mine.”
Yeah. Not often would I hear that from a little girl. Not that she might not have stains in her underwear, but she’d at least have the common courtesy to hide them under the bed or in one of my drawers or something. She also wouldn’t PROUDLY DECLARE to the rest of the house when she makes the bathroom stink so bad that I’m again screaming at the top of my lungs, “Who died in the bathroom?” only then to hear Middle Man (it’s always him) say “That would be my stench.”
“That would be my stench.”
You read it right.
And so is the life of a mom stuck in a house with stinky, smelly, stenchy boys.
That nosy lady was right. It does take a special person to be a mom of all boys. One who can be just as nasty and dirty and gross as they are.
I’m the PERFECT woman for the job.
BRING IT ON.