I wasn't made to be a boymom
I stumbled bleary eyed into Oliver's room a few mornings back. Still wiping sleep out of my eyes and wrapping my robe around me. And I found the rest of the household on the rug, with matchbox cars spread in front of them. Early morning sun was lighting his room, and Oliver was in his element. All the people. Just where he likes them.
I sat down beside Matt and the boys and the matchbox cars and I looked my husband in the eye and said, "You have got to teach me to play cars. I just don't get it." What came next was a 10 minute lecture including the finer points of car noises (apparently just saying "zoom" is completely beneath us), strategies for orchestrating a decent crash, and tips and tricks for driving the various cars based on model.
"So that's it?" I asked, as the lecture came to a close. "What happens, you know, next?"
You know the answer, don't you?
You do it all over again.
There is no next. There is only repeat.
And that is how you play cars.
You guys. I was not made a boy mom. I am growing into one. Maybe. I hope. But I did not come equipped with boy mom skills.
I don't know what a first down is.
No matter how many times Matt points out a Porsche, I will always guess that its Camero. My brain has no retention for car facts.
I don't like worms. I don't like spiders. I don't even like rollie pollies.
I have seen the Lego Movie countless times, but I still have no idea what its about.
The same can be said for Star Wars.
And Lord of the Rings.
And the Avengers.
God's sense of irony and humor is not lost on Matt and I when we think about the tiny men that are sharing our home and seats at our table and taking up so much space in our hearts.
We would be really, really solid girl parents.
Here we are.
Blessed with this little band of brothers.
I get overwhelmed sometimes when I think past the toddler years and imagine preteens buckled in beside me in the car. We won't be listening to Raffi's Singable Songs or talking about Super Why.
What will we be talking about?
Will we be talking?
Because preteen boys.
I take comfort in the fact that they will not turn eleven overnight.
And that I will have a whole year with the five year old version of each of them.
And the six-year-old version.
And all the years between now and eleven.
And so here is my plan.
Figure out what fills them up.
And do that with them.
Even if that means drive, crash, repeat.
This week it meant pushing back my fears of diseases and parasites carried in urban runoff and taking Oliver in undies and a t-shirt to jump in puddles at the foot of our drive way.
And it meant asking the construction worker what his digger was called and then trying to remember the words Ditch Witch Chain Trencher.
And it meant permitting Oliver to persist in singing his made up songs called "When Daddy poops" and the follow up to that hit single, "When Oliver poops."
And it meant taking a deep breath when Oliver used the kitchen table for a very loud, very persistent drum session during lunch... and joining him in his rhythm. And then taking a drum break when I just couldn't take anymore.
And it means that if you are a boy mom too, I'm watching. Because I was not made a boy mom. I'm growing into one. And I need all your ideas and all your wisdom and all your lessons learned the hard way and the easy way and every way in between.
We are learning as we go. And it's bound to be a bumpy ride. But we wouldn't trade it for all the girl babies.