On Mother’s Day I reflect on the joy’s and challenges of mothering from the year prior. I think about the things I’ve done well and the areas where a clean slate is necessary. I take the day to “bathe in the sunshine” during a season of relative ease or take a few deep breaths if the current season is a trying one, and tell myself that “this too shall pass.”
This year the day was particularly sweet because we’ve grown beyond the time where every day is a Groundhog Day of chores and crisis management… diapers, feedings, vomit, and redirection, redirection, redirection. Zach, our youngest, is now 4 (approaching 5) and the twins are 7 (approaching 8) and the current season is one I’ve dubbed “boys will be boys.” It is characterized by constant motion, boundless energy, and lots of dirt.
Because I am not a boy, but am surrounded by 4 of them, my world is one I sometimes don’t understand. I am a “girl’s girl,” which makes my situation even more baffling. There are days I look around and think, “Where am I and how did I get here?” (and sometimes “How do I get out of here?”). It astonishes me that a variable of one little chromosome makes such a difference in how we approach the world around us.
For example, every pair of my boys' jeans has holes. Their faces, hands and knees are dirty all the time, even after a good scrubbing). One is obsessed with potty talk and finds any joke that includes certain body parts side-splitting funny. They don’t walk because running is more expedient (unless you tell them to clean up their rooms). Though they’ve learned that “ladies go first,” and to “never hit a girl,” I am assaulted by errant knees and elbows when they climb on me. Their favorite games involve swords, guns, or light sabers and always knightly valor. Wrestling, rolling around on the floor like bear cubs, sitting on each other’s heads, climbing anything that can be climbed--these are the days of our lives.
Now that my boys are so active, I’ve noticed a very marked difference between “girl moms” (moms with girls) and “boy moms” (particularly those with two or more boys). The crux of the difference is this: boy moms have a much higher tolerance for potentially dangerous situations.On the playground my boys climb on TOP of the jungle gym, not IN it, and they love to hurl from precarious perches. They often call for me to watch. In these moments, after I praise their derring-do, I am the recipient of withering glances from “girl moms” at the park, who can’t understand how I could possibly allow such behavior. It’s these moments, when I am most proud to be a “boy mom.” I ignore the disapproval of other moms, swallow my fear and encourage them to “go for it.” I love to see them push their limits, tempt fate, and be courageous. I’ve learned they need such opportunities to gain mastery over their bodies and their environment, which gives them the confidence that they can do something difficult and survive it, albeit with scrapes and bruises and the occasional broken arm or leg.
Because I am not a boy, but am surrounded by 4 of them, my world is one I sometimes don’t understand. I am a “girl’s girl,” which makes my situation even more baffling. There are days I look around and think, “Where am I and how did I get here?” (and sometimes “How do I get out of here?”). It astonishes me that a variable of one little chromosome makes such a difference in how we approach the world around us.
For example, every pair of my boys' jeans has holes. Their faces, hands and knees are dirty all the time, even after a good scrubbing). One is obsessed with potty talk and finds any joke that includes certain body parts side-splitting funny. They don’t walk because running is more expedient (unless you tell them to clean up their rooms). Though they’ve learned that “ladies go first,” and to “never hit a girl,” I am assaulted by errant knees and elbows when they climb on me. Their favorite games involve swords, guns, or light sabers and always knightly valor. Wrestling, rolling around on the floor like bear cubs, sitting on each other’s heads, climbing anything that can be climbed--these are the days of our lives.
Now that my boys are so active, I’ve noticed a very marked difference between “girl moms” (moms with girls) and “boy moms” (particularly those with two or more boys). The crux of the difference is this: boy moms have a much higher tolerance for potentially dangerous situations.On the playground my boys climb on TOP of the jungle gym, not IN it, and they love to hurl from precarious perches. They often call for me to watch. In these moments, after I praise their derring-do, I am the recipient of withering glances from “girl moms” at the park, who can’t understand how I could possibly allow such behavior. It’s these moments, when I am most proud to be a “boy mom.” I ignore the disapproval of other moms, swallow my fear and encourage them to “go for it.” I love to see them push their limits, tempt fate, and be courageous. I’ve learned they need such opportunities to gain mastery over their bodies and their environment, which gives them the confidence that they can do something difficult and survive it, albeit with scrapes and bruises and the occasional broken arm or leg.
Last Sunday as I looked at my band of rag tag warriors assembled around me on the bed (after bringing me their version of breakfast in bed…crackers…Fig Newtons…and a granola bar) I asked them, “Do you know what makes me a mother?” I got blank stares in response.
“You do,” I said. “You three boys are what make me a mother. Before I had you boys, I was just a lady, but it is You who make me a mom.”
All three looked at me gravely, with serious, sad faces.
Will said, “Were you sad when you were just a lady? Before we made you a mommy?”
I answered, “Yes. I desperately wanted to be a mommy. And I prayed that God would give me the chance. And you three boys are the answers to those prayers.”
Then Will (one of our adopted twins) said, “Do you think our other mommy is sad? Because she doesn’t have us?”
“I know she must miss you terribly,” I answered. “But I hope that now she has some other children who made her a mommy again so she won’t be sad.” Then he asked if he might meet her one day, to which I responded that I surely hoped he would get the chance.
Later that day, during dinner, Mike asked the boys to each describe what they loved most about “mom.” Here’s what they said:
Will: I love her because she loves me so much.
Zach: I love how she snuggles with me.
Jake: I love how she makes my dinner each night.
These sentiments will get me through the trying “boy mom” days I will surely face between now and next Mother’s Day. When I am tempted to ask, “How do I get out of here?” I will remember to thank God for the three boys that made me a Mommy.
