Boys Will Be Boys

I use this saying facetiously.

I'm not one that is willing to pass off or turn a blind eye to wrong boyish behavior with a flippant, "Boys will be boys".

However, having grown up in a home with only one brother (poor thing), my sisters and I all being girly girls that played with dolls, had a fascination with nail polish and make-up and dresses that spun way out when we twirled around...well, lets just say I've noticed that there are some very distinct, inborn differences between the sexes.

Things that I believe are healthy, God-given differences that should be encouraged and nurtured and celebrated...but nevertheless were things I was unprepared for as a mom.

It's an entirely different ballgame parenting boys than it is parenting girls.

It's been something of a challenge for me over the years as a mother of sons to quell my natural instict to coddle and baby them after every little scratch or scrape, determined to raise them to be tough and roll-with-the-punches boys who will one day grow to be manly men, instead of little 'mama's boys' or 'sissies'.

This is not to say they aren't still affectionate and sweet. Though tough, they also have moments of sensitivity and both show signs of being compassionate and tender-hearted.

Still, it's like I'm a stranger in a foreign land. Daily there are things about mothering boys that surprise me.

There is something unknown and utterly unfamiliar to me...an inner drive that compells my sons to tear apart or make forts of the couch cushions nearly every day.





To rise to the challenge and conquer new heights.



To turn anything they have on hand into a gun while playing with other boys.



To line up the shakers on a restaurant table and 'thoot the bad guyth'.



To say things like, "You wanna peetha me?", complete with that head bobbing-in-readiness challenge action.





To want to play fight and wrestle and rough-house all the time...usually until we have to put a stop to it.

To have a fascination with things like motorcycles, cars, boats, jets, fire engines, helicopters and trains, anything to do with "Wightneen McKeen" from Cars, and more recenly "Cwotch Wockets" (referring to those fancy motorcycles the younger set seem to prefer).

To turn whatever is handy (here a couch cushion) into a "moto-psycho"

And to turn everything into a train.





Or maybe a skateboard (no thanks to The Goofy Movie).

To leave very realistic looking toys lying around the house (which after the door has been open and mom naturally worries about what is outside getting in can really freak a mom out!)

To laugh about, um, flatulence. And belching. Every. time. they. hear. it.

And to make said sounds while either cupping their hands in their armpits or by 'forcing' themselves to burp as often as possible (and with our older son Jericho, this must always occur on the sidelines with much frequency while I am talking to someone after church or in the line at the grocery store--the most public place possible, so as to bring about the utmost humiliation to his mother).

Because to boys, nothing is funnier than the sound of passing gas, no matter how uncouth their mother may deem it.

Boys also naturally gravitate towards puddles or fast food cups left in parking lots so as to stomp on them, giving no thought to where the oily puddles or the liquid inside said cups will splatter in the process.

They also don't care one whit if they get absolutely filthy playing outside.

Or if they aren't wearing a stitch of clothing in full view of the cloud of neighborhood witnesses (thankfully we managed to curb this behavior in Jericho early on, but as you can see, we have our work cut out for us with Judah).



To crawl into dark, cobwebby holes without fear (like the doghouse when our dog Raisin wasn't in it).

To, um, take a whiz outside (much to mom's mortification) because it's such an inconvenience to "have to come all the way inside" to use the toilet when busy playing in the back yard.

To play with the spiders that appear nightly on our front porch by throwing baby crickets into their webs so they can watch them come out and wrap 'em up for later.

Or to put said spiders in a big jar and pit them against a praying mantis also found near our porch light...to see which one will win.

Because they're boys and we want them to grow up to be courageous and unafraid of taking risks or facing down danger, I have to let them do things that would have given my grandma a heart attack to watch.

Things like being thrown high in the air by daddy.



Diving headfirst down slides at the park.

Or poking at road kill with a stick to see the disgusting maggots crawling around on it.

Here we have the boys inspecting a dead pigeon in a parking lot, all the while asking questions like, "Can I poke at it with a stick?" or "Can I kick it?".

Only rarely do I get to see glimpses of myself in my boy children.

With our older son Jericho, there is his artistic ability. He and I seem to see through the same artistic lenses. I also see glimmers of myself in his sense of humor and how he views the world around him.

But with Judah...very little about him ever reminds me of me.

Until the other day when Judah was standing by the glass sliding door and the sun was streaming in, and he called out, "Mama! C'mewe!"

I came running and found him standing there with the shadows from the screen dancing on his forearm, and he in wonderment saying, "Wook at da pwetties, mama!"



Yep, I know it's strange, but I definitely saw myself in that one.

The rest? All boy.

Just like his dad.

And that's a good thing. Well except maybe that whole flatulence thing, lol.