“Cooties are just an excuse boys made up in the 80’s to get away from girls.” – Gavin, age 8.
It took me a while to get used to the idea of being a mom to a boy. By that, I mean every single time I had one. Since I am not a boy, it’s all pretty new territory. They are fast. They grow fast. They eat fast. They get mad and hit and forgive fast. They are not dwellers. They have hormones that drive them onward and upward. (Literally up-the-walls-ward. You should see the footprints over my sofa.) And none of mine have even hit adolescence yet. (We’re willing to accept donations for groceries for when they’re all teenagers at the same time.) I love them. But, boy, I don’t understand them.
When you have little boys…
Ice cubes may contain fossilized bugs (real or plastic).
The garbage men and plow truck drivers automatically wave at your windows when they go by.
You know that hooters and honkers refer to tow trucks.
All pockets must be checked for saved mud before washing.
You have yelled, “Don’t climb on the walls!” and meant it.
If the kitchen is filled with the smell of chocolate rather than meat, they’re disappointed.
Your three year old wails “I need more power!”
They go to sleep clutching matchbox cars.
Plastic spiders live in your houseplants.
You’ve never had a tea party.
You’ve never seen Frozen (Really. Never. I can’t even sing the song.)
A power ranger greets you when you open the cabinet over the bathroom sink.
Everything’s a weapon.
Ace bandage + empty soda bottle = jet pack
Toy boxes are divided into weapons, a guy box, a transformer box, and legos.
Clothing is excessive. Any clothing. Except for boots.
The baby’s favorite chew toy is a nerf bullet.
Camouflage is in. No sparkles in this house.
Dirt is a food group.
If you’re not yelling louder, then you must not mean it.
They set traps in the backyard to catch dinner.
There had better be mud puddles in heaven.
To burp on command is a badge of honor.
“The last shall go first” lesson results in backwards racing.
You know the name of every type of construction vehicle and the common name of most kinds of lizards. And what they eat.
Dad is their hero.
The baby boy can’t talk, but when he hears a motor, he growls.
They know real men eat from pink bowls (it’s a good lesson to learn!)
Your set of train tracks can loop around the house. Twice.
A hole is to dig.
“Mom, we caught a live squirrel! Can we kill it for supper?”
Cleanliness is next to sissyness.
You’ve had serious discussions about reasons they cannot camp out on the roof.
Using forks is too slow.
Your pillowcases are wrecked from stair-sledding races.
You know more about Star Wars now than you did when you were a kid. Not because you want to.
You are automatically cool when you get older because you get more candles, and therefore, fire, on your cake.
Someone found your smartphone and it’s now full of selfies. Of lego men. And pet rocks.
You can make a sweet catapult.
“If God didn’t want us to pick our noses, why did He make our fingers fit in there so well?” -Shiloh, 6.
“I don’t want a hair cut. I just need a short cut!” -Ben, 3.
“I can’t say ‘docile’ but I can say ‘roar!'” -Henry, 5.
That’s just how boys roll. (And run and climb.) Thought you might want to know what you’re missing.
And P.S. We did not eat the squirrel. This time.