I planned on three girls, but God in his infinite, all-knowing wisdom, nixed my Little House on the Prairie dreams, and decided to give me two boys. Brothers two-and-a-half years apart, sandwiched between two sisters. My own Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy.
It really is a different kettle of fish raising more than one boy, my observant mother said the other day. She had just spent the entire day with The Four so I could play hooky from motherhood. Mom just missed raising two boys. My brother will be 40 next May, his twin brother didn’t make it past three days.
Mom’s right, of course. Having more than one boy is tough at times. They fight, tease, torture each other, some days it feels like it’s non-stop. Then you add in all the normal boy things: jump, run, yell, climb, etc., etc. Now double it. When one brother is missing, gone camping with his father, the house is this bizarre quiet. I’m not used to it. It’s rather strange not having to remind the boys to be nice to each other, loving.
Yes, they can be cuddly, it’s not all misery with boys. My boys are willing to actually kiss me with a pucker on the lips. I have one child who would rather eat glass. Really. I hope she still thinks that way when she’s a hormonal teen swooning over some pimply boy. Ha.
I wish I could show the world those moments when one of my boys climbs in my lap for a hug or kisses me goodnight. It would help cournteract those bad public testimonies. Moms mothering more than one boy know what I mean. Having your children “into tricks,” as I call it, is bad enough in private, but in public for all the world to witness, is horrible.
In public, my boys (usually) ignore my commands to stop their naughtiness and to force the issue is to invite a scene, stares and judgment from that mother. Again, mothers like me know what I’m talking about. That woman who’s children do no wrong — ever — mothering perfect, well-behaved little angels. Wish I had a nickel for each time she rolled her eyes at my kids.
I want to strangle the lot, truth be told.
It’s not that I don’t try to rein them in or that I let them run wild with me not caring. I hate it when they’re obnoxious, ignoring me, the fighting, or the ultimate sin — be rude to another grown-up.
So my boys wade in the creek while the rest of the class stands obediently on the bank happy to comply with the instructor. I tell Peter and Edmund to come ashore. Just once. And inside it’s a battle: my tears of frustration and embarrassment are held in, not allowed to overflow like a creek flooded with a torrent of rainwater. My tears held back by my Irish stubbornness. I’ll never let her, and her cherubs, see me cry.
Oh good grief. We must be sharing brain cells today. A few weeks ago at the Homeschool convention I attended, I watched a family of 6 traverse the exhibit hall, attend seminars, and stroll the halls together. There were 4 girls. All dressed alike. One in a wheelchair. They were the best behaved children that I’d ever seen. I vascilated between envy and wanting to go up to them, throw my arms around all of them and quiz them on how they do it. I commented to my SIL, how if I had brought my kids, it would have been a much different experience!
We just do the best we can. Having “exuberant” kids has certainly changed my perspective on judging other mothers. Repeat after me. “It’s only a season. It’s only a season.”
If it makes you feel any better, I KNOW EXACTLY HOW IT IS.
I have three sons.
They behave, occasionally, like animals. The perpetual game is “top dog.” No one ever wins. They have all reduced me to tears.
They also come up and hug me for a long time for no reason at all. They aren’t bad boys. They are just boys.
[...] Long-time readers of this blog know how they can be. My wonderful, obedient children that make me weep with frustration because of their ill manners and monkey shines in [...]
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