Raising Boys

It has occurred to me recently that I am really "in for it" as a mother raising two feisty little boys. I come from a family with two girls. My sister and I read books, played with cabbage patch kids and took ballet class. We did well in school and never got in trouble. In fact, the only time I remember getting in trouble at all was once in fourth grade when I was supposed to be paying attention to a math lesson. Instead, in a highly uncharacteristic gesture fueled by my intense love of the holiday, I turned to my neighbor and asked her what she was going to be wearing that afternoon in the Halloween parade. The teacher caught me talking, marched me to the front of the room and made me write my name on the board. That was it. No further repercussions or repeat incidents. Even so, remembering back to this one moment still makes me white hot with shame over 25 years later.

So that brings us to the present. I have a growing sense that things are going to be a little different with Max and Henry. Today, for example, Max got in some pretty big trouble at preschool. He and his friend Mick took it upon themselves to sneak off to the bathroom together, overflow the sinks, and use up all of the soap and the paper towels. When I picked Max up from school, I had the distinct pleasure of being asked to step inside to "have a little talk" with his teacher. I've been the unhappy teacher on the other side of these sorts of conversations, and I can now say with authority, that it sucks even more to be the parent. I know, I know...You're probably thinking, "He's only three. Kids make mistakes!" To that I might respond, "Dear God, HE'S ONLY THREE! What kind of trouble is he going to be getting into a few years from now?!"

Then there are the injuries. This blog has already chronicled the myriad of fat lips, black eyes, lacerations requiring hospital trips, and other such injuries sustained by Max in Henry in their few short years of life. By contrast, I've never broken anything in my life and I've never been to the hospital for an injury.

Finally, there's the physical damage to the house. Perhaps my mom remembers differently, but I don't think that either Nicolle or I ever caused any sort of irreparable harm to our surroundings or our furniture. Max and Henry, on the other hand, have (in the past month alone), peeled the paint off of the bathroom door, gouged the wood floors in several locations, chipped paint off of the stairs with a toy wrench, and ruined two walls in their bedroom -- one with overzealous riding of the rocking chair and one by turning the humidifier up to full tropical-storm level during the middle of night.

So that's where I stand. My house is falling apart around me; my children are covered with bruises; I will never be able to look the preschool teacher in the eye again.

In other words, I'm the mother of two wonderful boys and I wouldn't change a thing.