Mother of Sons

So, I was doing the laundry and checking the pockets.  I suppose everyone does this, although, I have known people who don't.  To skip the step of checking pockets would be absolutely disastrous at our house.  You just never know what you will find.

So, I was doing the laundry and checking pockets.  And I found a treasure-trove of classic boyhood.

A handful of rubber bands.


Lose change.


Some crayons.


A little jar with dead bugs in it.


Nerf bullets.


String.  Lots of string.


Shells from our last trip to the beach.


Favorite rocks.

I shook my head in disbelief of all the "junk" little boys tote around.  I told my friend and she said, "I find that sort of endearing."  Indeed?

I guess it is.

I love being the mother of five sons.  I have to get to sit through Kung Fu demonstrations and Little League games.  I get to wipe the floor around the toilet with disinfectant at least once a day.  I get to pick up their smelly socks and trip step over all sorts of sports equipment and spy gear in the hall.

Boys build forts and climb trees and fall out of said forts and trees.  One of them always has a black eye or fat lip and of the ten knees represented at least half of them are scraped.

They devour sandwiches like something from a competitive eating contest.  And I'm thinking I should buy some stock in cold cereal before they hit their teen years.  It may be a sound investment.

Sometimes one of the bigger ones will still sneak into our bed at night.  Which is also so endearing.  Except he sleeps like a trout.

My boys can do amazing things that my girls cannot (or perhaps will not--thank the good Lord above) do, such as burp the alphabet, make farting noises with their armpits, and tell simply hilarious (you can sense the sarcasm, right?) jokes about all manner of bodily functions.

I love being the mother of five sons.  I have to get to teach them to be gentlemen.  To stand up when a lady enters the room.  To hold open the door for me and lift heavy things.  To go out in the rain to fetch something from the garage so I can stay dry and warm.  To comfort the girls (and me!) when we see a scary bug or a slithery creature.  Even the four year old is a professional bug killer and lizard catcher.

And when one of them offers me his arm when walking into church, my heart just melts.

Lest you think them just raw testosterone, they are so kind.  Really kind.  They love to serve--especially their sisters.  The other day I had two of Meg's little friends over here for the weekend--little girls we consider sisters.  The girls had a full-blown high tea in the living room, served on real China, with real tea, with real linens.  All staged and served by the boys who willingly dressed up in their dress clothes and neckties with white towels draped over their arms.

As long as I have sons, chivalry is not dead.

I love being surrounded by their strength.  Physical strength, yes, but more so the strength of their spirits.  When I see my little army of men I know I will always be well-cared for.

Sometimes when I look at them I get little glimpses of what they will be like as full-grown men and I smile.  Compassionate, creative, strong, leaders.  Someday, I pray that there are five lovely young women who will appreciate all I have taught them and all that they are.  I also pray that these lovely women are not put off by the smelly socks or jokes about breaking wind.  From all the evidence I've seen, I don't think boys outgrow that.

And I hope when they are the men of their own houses, that they reserve a little corner--a tiny room somewhere with a window, a bookshelf and a rocking chair--for their old parents, especially their mother.  And I would be tickled-pink if they served me tea in their dress clothes with a towel over their arms.