Being a boy mom is hard

I'm trying to be a good boy mom. But, man, it's hard.

I don't like when he growls at people as if that's how we communicate. And then there is the constant noise. And movement.

He hasn't had a haircut in months. Three months. Not even a trim, except perhaps the one I think he gave himself in the front. Yes, I think. I'm not even sure that happened. But it seemed to have happened, despite the lack of evidence.

At least he's cute with his wild hair. See that picture above? Yeah, I took that yesterday morning not long before I walked him into preschool, where yesterday was Picture Day. I tried, once, to brush his hair down. It popped right back up, thanks to him falling asleep on wet hair. At least it was clean.

Of course, he busted his lip the night before Picture Day too. I don't really know how. He didn't cry. He told me some random story about my friend's clown fish as I wiped the blood. And then he went back to playing.

He plays hard. He likes to be outside. And he likes to take off his shoes and socks once he's there. I wonder how long into the winter he'll try to do that. Here's the thing, dirt washes off. So does most paint and marker marks. And ketchup. And yogurt. I can sweep up the cornbread that crumbles on the floor around his place at the dinner table. I've learned rice is easier to sweep up after it sits there awhile and hardens.

I'm a good boy mom sometimes. The dirt doesn't bother me. And I sent him to school on Picture Day with wild hair, a busted lip and clean clothes. I'm assuming the photo will capture him best this way anyway. I speak his love language of tickling sometimes. I let him climb in the washer and dryer when he insists on helping me with laundry.

All boy. Messy. Clumsy. Yet charming.

But too often I snap words at him too quickly because he's torn another page of another book or hit someone with a stick. I expect him to want some quiet like I crave, especially in the afternoons. I don't understand how a boy who doesn't shed a tear when he walks into the wall or face plants into concrete, cries when he's asked to clean up the Legos or turn off the movie.

I've been a boy mom for 2 years, 11 months and a couple of days. Each day the territory becomes more familiar. But I'm not sure it'll ever be easy, which is why I need more grace. One growl at a time.

This originally appeared at my blog. Want more? Follow me on Twitter.

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