3 Cheers for Boys

Boy (n) - A noise with dirt on it.

If you have boys, you know the truth of that statement.  My youngest never has a clean face.  This is not for lack of my trying.  I wipe that angelic little face a thousand times a day.  It's just that he's a magnetic force no speck of dirt can resist.  His face is streaked with sweat, tears and grime.  His mouth in ringed with the last food he ate.  And this is 10 seconds after I've cleaned him and he's not been given any other food.

That's a boy.

My oldest is obsessed with dinosaurs and Apache helicopters.  When we play the card game war it is not with mere numbers.  How boring!  So last decade.  No, we play with a set of dinosaur fact cards.  Mass amounts of cars line my bay windowsill, as it is the perfect height for them to stand and push them back and forth in pretend races and crashes for HOURS on end.  The train table never gets old.  Race tracks adorn my floor and my walls.  And their treasure boxes hold rocks, leaves, plastic dinosaurs, smashed pennies, maps to Magic Kingdom, a car I have a sneaky suspicion was brought home from daycare in a pocket, acorns, magnifying glass, stickers, 10 pencils and valentine cards, a cupcake topper ring in the shape of spider, and one in the form of Captain America's shield.  Superhero capes are worn on any given day, to any given destination, with any outfit.  They always go.  My youngest entertained all the parents at soccer and the coach with his cape and mask at Mighty Mite soccer.  You never know when you might be called upon to save the world, and he's always ready.

Tea parties do not occur in my house.  Barbie dolls do not exist.  Legos breed throughout the night and sneak out of their bins to land in front of the refrigerator in anticipation of bare feet in the dark coming down for a drink.  Stuffed animals roar when the hand is squeezed.  Plastic dinosaurs are EVERYWHERE.

You think girls' clothes are cute?  Please!  All those pink bows and ruffles are a bit much.  But let me see one or both of my boys walking with their Dad dressed as his own personal little mini me's, and my heart stops.  I melt into a pile right there on the sidewalk.  Little boys running around after their baths in just those cute little boxer brief underwear is the cutest site EVER.  Page boy hats.  My youngest in his Captain America t-shirt and his Dad in his.  Dressing little boys in minitiarized mens' fashions is as cute as it gets, my friends.

Boys are loud.  They are forever in motion.  They are forever climbing, racing, making sound effects.  They are rarely clean.  They are jumping, running, falling, swinging, rolling and crawling.  They are throwing things up into the moving ceiling fan despite just getting yelled at for it. They bring home frogs, worms, bugs, snakes.  They beg for pet reptiles instead of kittens.  They smash, break, and beat on every toy.  They pee on the toilet seat.  There is ALWAYS pee on the toilet seat.  Occasionally on the walls around it if they are not truly awake in the middle of the night and not able to aim. Recently it also hit the shower curtain during such an occasion.  I clean bathrooms every day.  I am now teaching them to as well.  You cannot start this too young.

Boys love fiercely.  For this brief, blessed time in their lives I am the object of their greatest affection.  They love and adore their father, and look up to him, emulate him.  But I am the one they want to marry someday.  I am the one they write love notes to.  I am the one with the glass of picked dandelions brought in with love.  I am the recipient of countless treasures in the forms of rocks, flowers, leaves, and sticks.  I am their best friend.  I am the one they run to when thunder awakens them in the night.  I am the one they think is the standard of beauty.  (Yes, love is blind, and I'm good with that).  The bond between a mother and her sons is indescribable.

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