That thing I wrote the other day about not knowing if I regret having a daughter… remember that?

This is my fear (rational or not) about raising boys exclusively: I just don’t think, eventually, that I will understand them entirely. They are going to grow up with a different cultural reference than I have. There will come a day that Jeff will implicitly understand something about their maleness, and I will feel confused and left out.

Actually I think that day may have already come. On Wednesday, to be precise.

Within about an hour on Wednesday evening the boys:

· Used colored pencils as guns and ran around pretending to shoot each other (including the toddler);

· Upon being told that wasn’t safe, turned the pencils into swords and swash-buckled around the house;

· Rearranged the furniture (these are the same kids who claim they aren’t strong enough to carry in groceries, by the way), thus transforming the living room into an indoor football arena, and played a full-contact game with a regulation-sized football, using the Christmas tree as a goal-post;

· Cranked up the stereo and flattened an enormous cardboard box which they used as a dance floor, which was totally fine until they

· Turned dancing into a game called “Push Each Other Off The Box,” whereupon Caleb—at a distinct size disadvantage—was plowed into a wall and started crying;

· Turned the sofa into their personal stunt-man-training-facility, which also resulted in Caleb crying. And bleeding;

· Placed the flattened box at the top of the stairs and helped Caleb lay down on it and said something about “…sledding!” and were clearly planning on launching the poor baby to his death until I intervened.

They accomplished this destruction in under one hour.

The sledding incident pushed me over the edge. I may have yelled. Okay, I did yell.

And Jensen, offended at being told (in nicer words of course) that he was a complete bonehead, threw up his hands and rolled his eyes and said, “But, Mom, there isn’t anything to do that doesn’t involve hurting each other!”

I fell into stunned silence and looked at Jeff with pleading eyes. “What is wrong with your children?” I asked silently. And he smiled. And shrugged. And he understood them with absolute clarity. I was the only one not in the loop.

It has happened.

We’re going to be down to two kids. In a stunning turn of events, Jensen has announced that he’s moving out. Running away, to be precise.

He might seem a little young for independent living, but he’ll probably be better off. Living conditions around here have deteriorated to the point where he is expected to– get this– clean his room. Outrageous. Abusive, even. Thus, he announced yesterday morning that he is leaving. I calmly asked if I should get him a suitcase to pack up his stuff.

He nearly panicked, thinking I was serious. Fortunately he managed to pull together his kick-assingest eight-year-old tough look and agreed to the suitcase. And he lowered his voice as much as he could (to, like, an alto) and put on some pouty James Dean lips and said, “But I’m only taking my radio, my lamp, and the Wii.” (Please note: his radio is a boombox circa 1983 which has a double tapedeck and a broken CD player and is roughly the size of a Toyota Prius. Kid needs some parachute pants and a big piece of scrap cardboard, and maybe he can breakdance to earn some coin on the street.)

“Underwear?” I asked.

Unequivocal No. “But I will take the tv. And the DVD player. And lots of PG-13 movies.” (That’s another of his grievances; he doesn’t get to watch all the PG-13 movies he wants to. Other Kids’ parents let them watch anything they want. His life is truly awful. Damn those Other Kids for enticing my child to run away.)

“And be sure to pack me lots of Gatorade and granola bars.” (Another injustice: not enough Gatorade. The Other Kids get to drink it all the time.)

With this he apparently began to question the wisdom of his plan. “I’ll live beside the house, I guess. I’ll need the electricity to watch movies…. But I’m never coming in the house.”

“…except at night. I’ll come in at night to steal food. When you’re asleep. You’ll never see me.”

“Except when you guys go to restaurants. I’ll come with you. But I’ll only get in the van. Not in the house.”

Kid has a knack for planning. What could possibly go wrong? He’s not even gone yet, and I miss him already.

File this under “Be Careful What You Wish For.” With a cross-reference to “Is Summer Over Yet?”

My kids hated each other on Tuesday. Jensen and Evan fought all day, epic battles over who got the shopping cart at the store and whose feet stink worse (and that’s pretty much a tie because they have the stinkiest feet in the Western Hemisphere). Because I am a mother and follow the script, I said something entirely Rodney King-ish, like, “Why can’t you guys just get along?”

And yesterday, they did get along. By some minor miracle, nobody lost any eyes or limbs or spleens during their Tuesday brawls, and they were Best Friends yesterday. During Caleb’s naptime they played downstairs together for three straight hours, allowing me to work upstairs without a single interruption. They were happy, I was happy. This was obviously a direct result of my awesome parenting, right?

I? Am an idiot.

I finally went downstairs to see what they were up to. And I had one of those moments where everything just kind of went in slow motion, you know?

The first thing I saw was that the entire family room floor was covered in tiny bits of styrofoam. I could not see the carpet. It looked like it had snowed two inches.

The second thing I saw was the oscillating fan, obviously set on “high,” with the fan cage full of foam packing peanuts.

And then I saw the kids. Who looked at me, delighted. And who were also covered in styrofoam bits. (The stuff has an amazing static charge.) “Watch this, Mom!” Jensen said, stuffing a handful of peanuts through the back of the fan and giggling uncontrollably as they were sprayed all over the room. Curious, I checked the storeroom. And, yes, they had done the same thing in there.

It took two hours to clean it up. Which pretty much negated the quiet time they had granted me earlier.

The takeaway: we will no longer save styrofoam peanuts.

And I think I liked it better when they hated each other.

Some little lies are excusable, right? Because God knows, as a parent, I tell a few of them.

Like this week. Jensen and Evan (the older two boys) went to stay at my mom and dad’s house. It was their version of “vacation,” and seemed especially important since I had to cancel our other vacation earlier this month. So away they went, for a week, where my parents did more fun things with them than those kids have ever done in their entire lives cumulatively. I was completely expecting them to never want to come home.

But on Thursday night, Jensen finally wanted to talk to me on the phone (he’d been having too much fun to talk to me before this). And he talked. And he talked. Then he said, a bit too casually, “So… how are things going there?” Which was secret code for, “I miss you.” But because he’s eight and impending coolness rules his demeanor, he can’t be openly affectionate with me anymore. Anyway, I got the idea. It was sweet.

Then he said, “I’ll bet Caleb misses me a lot. Is he looking around for me? Does he ask for me?”

Jensen’s veiled homesickness broke my heart, just a little. And I lied, because I didn’t want to break his heart. “Yeah,” I said, “he’s kind of looking around for you. I think he misses you.”

Ha. Caleb didn’t miss his brothers one single bit. He was living in the best parent-child ratio he’s ever known, and he loved every minute of it. He was just fine with not having older boys around to compete for our attention or to push him around. He did not miss them.

But on the ride home today, they all just kept looking at each other. They all laughed at each other. And now we’re home and they all just disappeared together. I haven’t heard a word out of them. They’re all happy… together. Weird.

So maybe, completely unintentionally, I really didn’t tell a lie.

Because this morning Jeff and Evan took me to their super-top-secret-wild-blackberry-picking place.

And because one of my very favorite childhood memories is picking berries with my grandma.

And also because I understand so very well that I can’t take moments like these for granted.

And, finally, because there is nothing in this whole world quite like a fresh berry. Also, there is nothing– nothing– as precious as my little boys, who smell of sleep and sunshine and fresh morning air.

 

Yes, that is a tattoo on his chin

If he keeps going he'll have sleeves

I’m especially fond of this last one.  The kid put a tattoo that says “Tiger” underneath his bellybutton. It takes a special kind of mind to come up with something like that. Tiger? Below the belt? He’s not supposed to have that kind of bad sense for, like, 14 or 15 years, is he?

The exhaustion is delicious. It is deep in my muscles and my bones and I hold my baby boy against my chest and let his warmth melt into my tiredness until I can’t tell which is which. He nuzzles his face into the crook of my neck and I breathe in his sweet smell of milk and baby shampoo and sleep and I bury my face in his angel curls and let the fatigue claim me. I fall asleep holding my baby close.

I am awakened by a loud noise. I struggle to open my eyes and shake the sleepiness and I realize the baby no longer rests on my chest. It is cold where his body used to be. Disoriented, I look for the source of the sound that awakened me and see a restless boy, a boy with longish arms and legs and a thin body and a sun-browned face that has outgrown its baby fat. And he doesn’t smell of baby’s breath; instead he is gamey, ripe with sweat and outdoors and boyhood, but it is a smell that I instinctively love. This is the one: the one who made the noise that woke me to reality. He raises his curly head and smiles at me and my heart recognizes the eyes, the dimples, the smile.

He is my baby.

And my baby who is no longer a baby (but is he still mine? yes, and always, and please let this never change) smiles more broadly and says that he is going to play ball and that he’ll be back for dinner and then he bounds out the door with other boys who are growing into themselves quickly, too quickly, and he is gone.

And again I am tired. Motherhood is needy and her constant demands for unattainable perfection have left me exhausted yet again. I do not think there is enough sleep in the world to satiate her. My eyelids are heavy but this time I am scared and will not let rest come. Because I do not know. I do not know if I will recognize him when I awaken. I do not know if he will be here.

We didn’t know if Jensen was a boy or a girl, when I was pregnant with him. I kind of had a feeling I was carrying a girl, which destroyed my faith in maternal intuition from the get-go. But, boy or girl, we really didn’t care. I don’t do nurseries, couldn’t really care less about pink or blue, and, besides, we were going to raise this kid without regard to gender stereotypes. Boy with doll? Fine. Girl with tractor? Also fine.

Then he was born and his himness declared itself early and loud and clear and to my (admittedly naive) shock he fit the stereotype. Trucks and tractors and peeing in his face with diaper changes. Then sandboxes and dirt and worms and Legos. Construction and its evil twin, destruction. Sports. This kid? All boy.

Jensen’s interests are subtly taking on a bigger-boy tone and the stereotypical interests are now partnered with just-beginning physical changes, which are enough to make me slightly weepy and more than slightly crazy. But: the shoulders are getting a bit broader and my kid is undeniably growing himself a pair of Man Hands. He’s obsessed with rap. And rock. And likes to listen to both really loudly. He giggles around girls sometimes. And he has a baby (but growing) attitude.

But still. I never saw this coming.

The other night he asked Jeff to play football with him. Jeff was busy, so I offered. I’m always up for a game of football. But Jensen said, “No.” And don’t think for a minute his surliness escaped me. When I wondered why he suddenly didn’t want to play, he muttered, “Because you’re a girl.”

Seriously, kid? Did you just say that? All I can say is: beware the stereotypes. Sometimes they work, but in the end they’ll get you every time. And if this is the start of a larger trend, I will take you down. Like a girl. Or maybe not.