Remember on Friends, when Monica was about to move in with Chandler and she cried to Rachel, “I have to live with a boy!” That’s how I feel sometimes. I live with three boys. My husband, four-year old son, and dog Harry Potter. And this week, it’s really noticeable because I just got back from a Campowerment weekend with 75 other women, 12 of whom I lived in a bunk with, and the only guys allowed were the hot Ropes men who scream inspiring words at you as you gather up the courage to climb up a really tall, narrow pole, stand up on top of it, and then jump.
I get it. Farts are really funny for guys no matter how old they are. My four-year old and my husband love to fart and laugh about it regardless of the 30 year age difference between them. But maybe, just maybe you both could fart somewhere other than in my face or while piling on top me. And while this is going on, Potter just has to come and slobber all over my face. He’s probably joined in on the farting for all I know!
Speaking of piling on top of me, why is it that I’m the one that gets to be the human trampoline. My son’s favorite extracurricular activity is jumping on mommy while she tries to relax. I’m reading and there is a tiny human climbing on my head. I’ve been elbowed in the boobs, kneed in the crotch, and head-butted in the face too many times to count while my husband cheers him on in the background. Why can’t you both just wrestle with each other and leave me out of it?
I live in a house divided. I’m a New York Rangers fan and my husband roots for the New Jersey Devils. It’s not enough that my son chose to side with his dad on this one. He now knows the “Rangers Suck” (they do not) song and whenever we call daddy on the way to work, the first sentence out of his mouth is “Mommy likes the Devils! Let’s sing the song Daddy.” I just Amazon Primed a new Rangers jersey, which I will now wear around the house at all times.
I thought I had some major Magnatile skills. I built a house for my son and then we went to the park. When I came home, my house was knocked down and in its place stood a castle. My husband built a freaking castle and just left it there for me so I would feel insecure about my building abilities. Who do you think my son asks to build with him now? Mommy has to sit on the couch and watch because…”boys only.” And when I try to help if Daddy isn’t home, “That’s not how Daddy does it.”
Of course my guys love their penises probably even more than their farts, and four-year olds are not quiet about this fact. He loves to inform me he has a “big one.” On the flip side, when he asks me questions like “Mommy, why is my penis bigger? How do I make it go down?” I just tell him, “You can ask your Daddy when he gets home.” And I should probably get used to going into a bathroom and seeing the seat left up. I’ve trained my husband on that one. Now it’s your turn little one!
I rarely get to pee alone. You would think my child would be much more interested in what his Daddy does in the bathroom, but no. He gets plenty of uninterrupted alone time in the there. This last time my kid came in while I was peeing, he saw a tampon and the conversation went as follows:
M: Mommy, what is that?
Mommy: It’s something girls use.
M: Ummm, I don’t know about that…
Later that day when I was in the shower, he shined a large black flashlight inside. Awesome!
Somedays I feel like all I do is wipe bodily fluids off the floors. I swear my son and the dog coordinate when they don’t feel like peeing where they are supposed to. I go from wiping up pee off the bathroom floor to cleaning up the pee on the kitchen floor that I almost just stepped in. And then when I finish all that cleaning, Potter leaves me some shit in the family room.
My son tells on me to my husband. Yes, I pick at my nails. It drives my husband crazy. It’s my bad habit (okay one of my bad habits). The other night while I was sitting on the couch next to my son watching Paw Patrol and picking at my cuticles, he yelled to the kitchen, “Daddy, Mommy is picking her nails! I can jump on her for you! I get to tickle her now.” I wasn’t aware they had a private meeting about the consequences for me picking at my nails. No-one likes a snitch buddy!
But while I might have to endure the smell of too many farts, pick at my nails in secret, have awkward talks about penises, and nurse the many bruises from being beat up, jumped, and sat on, I also get lots of cuddles, I love you’s, and kisses on the lips from both my guys, even the dog sometimes.
I couldn’t picture it any other way!
What boy behavior makes you crazy?