Today I was talking to my good friend Kristi.
We got to talking about little boys. She has two. I have three.
Little boys are by all means sweet.
There is a special connection between moms and their boys.
The other day, Will was recounting an episode of the Brady Bunch.
He was giggling over the fact that Greg had a crush on his teacher
and thought that she was pretty.
I asked him if he thought his teacher was pretty.
He laughed and said, "Nope. Only you, Mom."
Of course, I immediately gave him cash and chocolate
to reward him for his brilliant perception.
But there is a disconnect with moms and their boys, too.
We are puzzled by all the wrestling and aggression.
They have never watched wrestling in their life but
spend hours grappling on the floor, pinning each other,
screeching with joy.
We are a little worried by their constant desire to be naked.
There is rarely an occasion of someone showing up
at our front door that I am not calling out,
"You must have your underwear ON when you answer the door!"
"And having your underwear on your head does not count!"
And the potty talk is mind boggling.
I would prefer to chat about upcoming events or
talk about the goings on of our day at the dinner table.
Inevitably, our dinner talk always deteriorates to the
subject of gas or some other bodily function.
Addison, who shouldn't have a clue as to what they are talking about,
laughs and giggles with his brothers.
Their father is no help at all in this area.
At some point in the dinner conversation, I usually get up and say,
"I need a break" or "Oh, for a bit more estrogen in this house."
I sneak off to my room and read a book.
But sooner or later, the door cracks and I am pounced upon,
tickled and showered with little boy kisses.
Because they know, even though they make me crazy,
and I don't really understand them,
I will never be able to get enough of those little boys.