There are times when the stark reality that I am the only female member of my household comes crashing in around me.
Sometimes it is when a girl friend of theirs comes over, and the closest thing we have to a girlie toy is the female Star Wars figurines.
Other times, it is when the farting contest turns ugly, and I suddenly have quite a mess to deal with in the bathroom.
If posed the question “where would you rather go on vacation: bass fishing or Disney World?” It is no contest. My oldest asks me everyday when bass season opens. The other two are chomping at the bit to go camping.
“What do you want for your birthday?” “I want a new compound bow. A stronger one so I can go hunting with Papa.”
One wants to know if you can really decapitate someone with a karate chop. Another is pouting because I didn’t get the Monster Jam tickets in time, and now they are sold out. One insists that if you don’t touch anything, including your privates, you don’t have to wash your hands after you pee. Maybe that is plausible, but I still have to wash everything within a 3 foot radius of the commode.
The other day my DH exited the bathroom shouting in disbelief “who peed on my book?”. I could only reassure him that it wasn’t me.
If they are not beating the snot out of each other directly with light sabers, they are throwing large metal and plastic toys around the house with wild abandon. Any injured brother is just a bonus.
One might wonder how you get through this craziness everyday. Mostly, I ignore it. Unless bodily harm seems unavoidable, I just tune out the screaming and revving noises and go about my day.
But then there are the days when they can’t stop themselves from trying to punch each other in the penis. There are also the days when they try to stack the chairs on top of the table and use it as a deer stand. Then, I must step in.
One day they actually hunted each other, dragging the vanquished deer (brother) into the living room to clean it. That’s a mental picture any mother would love…
They scream in pain so often that often times I don’t even hear it until one of the others comes down to point it out to me. I actually made my son walk through the house with a gaping head wound, because I told him if he needed me he had to come and get me. (Yes, that sealed my nomination for Mother of the Year.)
Right now they are launching monster trucks into old large toys that they no longer like. The more destruction the better. The louder the crash, the louder they roar in approval. There will be shards of plastic all over the carpet, and the strewn wreckage of Mach 5’s and fire trucks all over the living room. Never in my wildest dreams would I consider this fun. But they love it. These testaments to testosterone absolutely can’t get enough of it.