I think…actually I *know*…

that oftentimes I kinda pass the buck when it comes to my son.

I just think…

“well, he’s a boy, that’s for my husband to deal with…”

You know, with things like: how to be a good husband…how to treat a woman…how to be a gentleman…

Right?

While my husband carries a distinct and heavy responsibility of modeling manhood for my son, I must remember that I too must show him more than just how to clear his plate after dinner.

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The way that I respond to my husband.

The way I choose to react to him.

Ways I interact with other men.

How I allow myself to be treated by men and women alike.

How I carry myself and portray myself to others.

Word choices.

My son may be three…but he is watching.

Listening.

Intently.

He may not realize it now, but much of who he becomes as a man will come squarely from his mother.

Arguments.

Heated debates.

Laughter filled water fights.

Big bear hugs.

Sneaky kisses.

Furrowed brows.

Worried eyes.

Loving glances.

Each of these seemingly everyday things…

that I do without even thinking…

particularly those times I do these to his Daddy…

speak volumes and teach more than any word or book I can ever purposefully direct.

How I treat his father…will dictate how he expects to be treated by women.  His own wife someday perhaps.

How I behave as a woman, will help define how my son becomes a man.

Lucky for me (and you!) God is there to help fill in the cracks where we miss the mark.

Do you notice anything unusual about this photo?

Namely, the bubble solution that was dumped into the kiddie pool?

Oh, and the scraped knee?

If you are a MOB, you noticed right away, and your reaction was a good natured chuckle and a knowing nod.

You see, my son is a sweet child.

He does not have a mean bone in his body.

He rarely willfully disobeys.

Yet, he gets in trouble constantly.

Why?

Well, because he is a BOY.

Only other boy mamas get this.

The rest of them raise eyebrows, stiffen necks, and cuddle their quiet as church mice little girls sitting sweetly in their laps.

A friend of mine had a little girl.  I, had the boy.

Oftentimes we would talk, and I would marvel at the differences between the sexes.

I once asked: “How do you get her to do that???”

She responded with a short “We just tell her to, and she does it.  We’re really consistent in our parenting.”

Oh.

When my friend was pregnant a second time, I secretly wished she were having a boy.

Not in a mean spirited way…just that, I wanted her to see that the crazy in my house had little to do with parenting.

I’m not the perfect parent.  I have lots of faults and plenty of places I can be better.

Let’s get that straight right now.

But a lax parent I am not.

I am really pretty stinking consistent.

I fight the good fight.

Yet…I have learned that I must choose my battles wisely.

I learned early on that I must discipline and mold firmly and consistently…

…yet not break his little spirit.

If I told my son “NO!” for every single thing I preferred he did not do…

…not only would that be the only words he ever heard from me…

…but he would have a serious complex.

I must choose my battles…because in the end…what I want is to win the war.

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What battles can you choose to lay down for the sake of the war?

When I was pregnant with the twins, and before that ever anticipated ultrasound appointment to find out the sexes, I often repeated this short prayer:

“Lord, I will certainly be happy with whatever You have given me…but if I could ask, might You consider it not being two BOYS?”

I love having a boy.

In fact, strangely, I always just kinda figured I’d be the Boy Mom.

Yet, the idea that I might have one, two, three Tasmanian Devils within 25 months’ time…

….well, that just overwhelmed my senses.

Have you ever gotten into your car after your son (yes, your son) played in it?

You turn the ignition and jump right out of your skin?

The radio is on full blast.

The windshield wipers are swishing back and forth at an alarming rate.

The hazards are blinking furiously.

And somehow, apparently, you are also about to make a right turn?

Oh, yeah.

This is MOB.

You’ve *all* had this happen.  I forgot.

Well, that’s pretty much what having a boy is like, right?

His volume control is stuck on LOUD.

Whispering is a monumental feat.  One which can only last a maximum of 23 seconds before it disappears, or else he will spontaneously combust.

Walking?

What’s that?

Playing quietly?

An Urban Legend.

Sitting still?

Surely you jest.

A kiss?  Snuggles?

Not a chance.

This is my boy.

He is crazy.

He is loud.

He is non-stop.

He is FUN.

And no, he doesn’t have ADD.  (at least I don’t think so anyway!)

He is just…a BOY.

From the *moment* he wakes up, to the *second* he falls asleep…

…you know he is there.

Sound effects of crashing cars, balls bouncing, hysterical laughing.

If only I could bottle up that energy.

Oh how your mama could use it some days!

Okay, most days.

But you know what I love love love about having a boy?

Snuggles are rare.

Kisses are something that happen as his little body keeps right on running past me.

And quiet?

I often forget that’s an actual thing.

But those moments.

Oh those sweet, tender moments…

Early morning.

Sleep still looming gently overhead.

Fingers twirling his Stinky Corner Blanket.

Sweet toes warm and soft under the covers.

“Mama.  I need you.  Cuddle with me in my bed.”

It does not matter what I am doing.

Stop.

Dead in my tracks.

A grin creeps.

My heart melts into a puddle in my chest.

I drop the laundry.

Close my email.

And curl up in his twin bed among the Lightning McQueens, Buzz Lightyears, and Optimus Primes that he insists must come to bed with him.

Stroke his unruly hair.

Count the cowlicks swirling in every direction.

Savor the sweet smell of boy: dirt, peanut butter, and activity.

And we cuddle.

In the quiet.

For just a few minutes.

Before he pops up with all the energy of a tornado unleashed.

And starts his day.

Telling me about his race car.  And that he has to fix the sparkplugs.  And Daddy worked on the truck yesterday.

And…and….and…and…

And our crazy day begins.

The quiet moment is over.

It will not return for 24 hours.

But the sweetness is palpable.

Because it is so rare.

And while I adore my girls…my boy…this boy…will forever have a special place tucked away in my heart…

…because once you get over the shock of your windshield wipers swishing and radio blaring…

…you chuckle and begin the task of making it all right again.

Knowing full well that it will happen again.

Because he is a boy.

And I thank God that He has given me a boy.

A crazy unruly boy.

To teach me more about the differences between the sexes in three years, than I ever learned in the rest of my life.

To stretch me outside myself.

To test my limits.

To nurture my patience.

To grow my heart.