Boy, Oh, Boys!

“Boys are God’s way of telling you that your house is too neat!” The author of this quote is unknown, however, the sentiment has been recognized by mothers of boys ever since Eve picked up her sons’ (and Adam’s) dirty fig leaves from the garden floor.
    Only having one sister, I originally missed out on the joy and excitement a little boy contributes to a household. During my childhood, there were no after-dinner wrestling matches, lost reptiles lurking behind shower curtains or splintered furniture (from after-dinner wrestling). I hadn’t yet encountered the unmistakable aroma of sweaty hockey gloves or skateboard helmets, confronted decapitated Barbie dolls or witnessed the havoc boys can wreak in one small bathroom.
    Having a son first — and last — though, has finally made me privy to the adolescent yang counterpart of yin, and a youth chock-full of superheroes and fire trucks as opposed to bubblegum pink tutus and butterfly barrettes. Now I have seen — up-close-and-personal — the subtle and NOT-AT-ALL-subtle differences between the one wearing the training bra and the one snapping it like a slingshot. I’m convinced it’s an education that’s gleaned only from on-the-job experience.
    Since being mommy to two boys, I’ll vouch for the fact that a magnifying glass, a wet towel and/or a wadded up PB&J all become deadly weapons in mischievous man-child hands. Nowadays, I understand, too, the words “snail” and “explode” should never be used in the same sentence, a punch in the arm can be equal to a hug, and “Act first, consider the consequences if you get caught” is the testosterone-fueled tenet, which pre-pubescent (and many fully grown) males live by.
    I’ve also become fluent in “Dude,” a universally recognized, male-dominated language that’s delivered with a southern California surfer drawl. “Dude-ing,” as I refer to it, covers a variety of emotions with minimum effort (vocabulary, grammar and sense!). “Really, dude?” (sympathy) “Dude, no!” (disbelief) “We were, like, dude!” (disgust) “That’s sweet, dude.” (approval). And, the ever-popular “Duuude!” (greeting, admonition, affection and more.)
    Before having my own, I never realized that boys are less expensive than girls. The savings on soap, toothpaste and napkins alone could pay for a Hawaiian vacation for two. Had it not been for my sons, I also may never have known that super maxipads folded in half and secured with a rubber band make super pucks for knee hockey! (Moms of girls are thinking, “knee hockey?”) Additionally, I’ve found out that four-and-a-half raisins, five peas or two Flintstones vitamins can fit snugly into one 4-year-old’s nostril, a one-and-a-half-ounce golf ball can shatter a one-and-a-half-ton truck’s windshield, and by the time you hear “oh, oh” from the other room, it’s always too late.
    Now that I’ve been thoroughly exposed to the wonders of the wedgie-giving, video-gaming species, the contrast between the young sexes is as obvious as the need for a strategically-placed (absorbent) washcloth when changing a baby boy’s diaper. Girls try to mother their brothers. Boys try to smother their brothers. Nothing against little guys — I wouldn’t trade my two former dirt magnets for anything — it’s just their genetic coding. Embedded deep in the Y chromosome lies the “jump up and hit every awning” gene (next to the “jump into every puddle” gene), the “Let’s form a band” gene, the “I can belch the alphabet” gene, and the infamous “turn anything from a waffle to a golf club into a gun” gene.
    Mind you, I’m not saying there isn’t an equally long list of exclusively female traits that keeps moms occupied and exhausted; but those fun times are usually postponed until the teenage years, when the girls step up (suddenly wearing lip gloss and way too much eye makeup) to assume responsibility for the last half of our gray hairs. Until then, however, women-to-be are micromanaging a posse of stuffed animals, drawing rainbows and cultivating a desire to change their underwear every day, while our pre-pubescent male whirling dervishes are establishing that crushed red pepper doesn’t make good fish food, digging up everything parents thought they hid (very!) well and pointing out matter-of-factly stuff we need to know like, “Mom, you have a double chin” and “That perfume stinks.” 
    Nevertheless, by the time our daughters turn into hormones with heads and the omnipresent parental spotlight shines intensely on them, our sons will coast for a while with the knowledge that their (tattooed) initials won’t ever change, auto mechanics will tell them the truth, a Brazilian wax isn’t in their future, and virtually the universe is their urinal. Duuude!