Friday, February 13, 2015

The Sheep Blankie of Destructo-ness

I love being a boy mom.

Really. I do. Almost all the time, I absolutely adore being a mommy to 3 little boys.

Their energy completely drains mine before noon. I know that our 3 trips to the E.R. for staples and head injuries are just the tip of the iceberg. I cringe when I release them in the back yard for fresh air only to look out the window to see them taking turns destroying a cardboard box with different pieces of sporting equipment. I may never understand why every hug turns into wrestling or why poop is so stinking hilarious, but I wouldn't trade them for anything.

I can't imagine what my life would be like if I had kids that loved to sit at the table and quietly craft with me for hours at a time.

Even my artist child doesn't create while sitting quietly. In our house art is a sensory experience, meant to be seen, yes, but also felt, heard, and perhaps even tasted or smelled. It is active.

There are rare occasions, though, that I *love* being a boy mom...sarcastically. There are times when I may fantasize about pink dresses and lip gloss.

Public Restrooms, for example.

Gross. I know.

They are a problem in so many ways.

They are becoming a bigger problem for my house of little men with every outing. The twins, especially, are reaching an age at which they like their independence. They like to be BIG. They do NOT like to go into a restroom with a sign on the door which reads
because, well, they are not.

Most of the time they are just out of luck. And if Mommy's got to go, well, suck it up, buttercup. We all parade in together.

Occasionally, though, I allow the twins to show me how grown up they are by allowing them to make the trip to the men's room by themselves. It helps ease my mind that there are two of them.There is power in numbers. Plus I have a built-in reporter.

I like updates every minute or so about what is taking the brother so long.

And I may break out in a sweat every time a stranger walks into the restroom.

Sometimes there are water fights at the sink, but usually things turn out fine.

They did not turn out so fine a few weeks back, though.

We were in a big box store. Thing 1 needed the toilet and was adamant that he could go all by himself. In the MEN'S ROOM. I let him go. After things seemed to take an unusually long time, I sent his brother in. Several times. Just to be sure. Every report came back that things were progressing normally, there were no problems, and it would just be a few more minutes.

When he finally emerged and we got on our way, Thing 2 announced that he "smelled toots." I looked at his brother, who didn't break into the usual giggle that such a comment should have produced. As we walked down the aisle, I noticed that Thing 1 appeared to be walking bow legged. I asked him if he was okay, and he assured me that he was. He was just a little uncomfortable because, maybe, he had gotten a little pee on his underpants.

Did we need to try to dry them off?

Maybe, he admitted. So we turned back toward the restrooms.

To my horror, a turd rolled out of his pant leg.

I'll spare you the gory details. Needless to say, things had not been in any way normal or under control in the men's room that day, despite what he reported to his brother.

Also, the men's room privileges may have been revoked for a while.

Heavens to Murgatroyd. The perils of being a boy mom.

Not that having girls saves a mommy from potty just happen to be able to enter the restroom and help, should help be required.

On the other hand, if I had girly girls, I would likely never see them putting each other in the "squishinator" or fighting with the "sheep blankie of destructo-ness."

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