An Urban Myth with Facts

The husband walked in the room and said Up started at 10:45.  It was already 10:15, with the house still destroyed by the boys, no shoes, and a shirtless Evan.  With the precision of the military, the toys were put away, the boys shoed, the husband dressed.  Of course, the husband failed to remember that we were no longer two adults that speed to catch a flick, dash across a parking lot, pay, buy snacks as the other grabs just two seats.  Now we herd the boys towards the car like dragging them to bed, only with more enthusiasm.  We buckle the boys in and are sent to grab that one thing they just can’t live without.  I pay very close attention to those traffic laws now that I carry precious cargo.  We unbuckle the boys.  We doddle through the parking lot.  It takes several times for the husband to hear my suggestion of the debit machine, rather than wait in line with two boys, waiting to bolt.  While the husband still gets snacks, I herd the boys to the bathroom instead of the seats.

After I convinced Evan that the toilet will not flush on him nor suck him down into the toilet with its mighty flush, Evan peed.  I reminded him not to play with the stream.


Because I don’t want you to leak.


Because I don’t want to clean it up.


Because we’ll be late for the movie.  Pull up your pants. 

Hey, guess what.  We’re in the why-phase, and more on that on another post.

So I used the restroom.  While I hurried, flushing the toilet as I pulled out of my shorts, my keys fell into the flushing toilet.  For a half second, I stood there because there’s no way my heavy key set with its four keys, pocket knife, car clicker, and a half dozen club cards would go down the drain.  I reached in just in case.

My keys were shoved through the drain, just as my fingers scraped against them.  They were gone.  The water was gone.  The toilet filled to normal level.  My mouth hung open.



Boys, come one.  We got to go.  We got to wash our hands and find someone.  I think they’re gone anymore.  Quickly.  Hurry.  Come on.  Let’ s go!

But it was too late.  They were gone, washed away done the sewer.  Damn.

Vote for my post on Mom Blog Network

Raising Boys

Since I have two boys, I really can’t compare them to girls.  But I have a heard time believing a little girl would try to get you to sniff her butt.  Again, maybe they do, and I just don’t know because right now I am raising boys.  Yet they seem to be just a little different.  I’m not talking about high energy levels or potty humor because I’ve seen hyperactive girls and I watched kindergarten girls laugh at fart jokes.  But there is something so manly as trying to force a burp or a fart.

Evan has been trying to force himself to burp for months.  Months.  If you have read the other posts, you know he can’t quite get it.  He just does a pretend burp, and in case I missed the “burp,” he proudly exclaims that he just burped.  Growing up with brothers, boy cousins, and all their boy friends, I have learned that it is a proud achievement to burp your name, vowels, or ultimately the alphabet.  While I am sure my husband enjoys these boyish antics, I have never caught him teaching or complementing Evan on his fine burping skills.  Leaving me to believe, that this must be a natural trait, like running, jumping, or gossiping.  I only wonder what evolutionary value force burping has other than crude entertainment.  Not one to force a change on nature if it is harmless, I just make Evan excuse himself after every burp, hoping secretly it becomes too tedious to do both and give up his pretend burping.  Like I have a chance.

A couple of weeks ago, Evan put his hand down his underwear to scratch his butt.  For some reason, he sniffed his finger.  A discovery!  “Mommy, do you want to smell my finger?”  Are you kidding?  No.  But somehow my face betrayed the horror I felt as I calmly said “No, we don’t smell other people’s fingers” because he became insistent.  Great.  The other day he was naked and climbed up my back, trying to put his butt in my face, saying “smell it, Mommy, smell it.”  What?  I remember my brothers trying to fart on each other’s heads or just to clear a room.  When did my cute, sweet son become a little ape like his uncles?  Again I wish I could point my finger at my husband, after all he too is a boy, but I know he hasn’t played any boyish antics like this.  Wait, let me check.  Just like I thought a no with a weird look of “why would I teach him that?”  It was worth a shot to find out where this behavior came from. (Not my brothers either because this behavior would have occurred right after our family visit, not weeks afterwards.)

The only thing I can blame my husband for is Evan’s colorful language.  Evan has learned the word “scumbag.”  Watch last weeks Sand Diego/Denver game, and you would know how Evan picked up the language.  (Stupid football.)  At least Evan was napping through most of the colorful language.  While my husband chuckled, thinking it could be worse, I pointed out that Evan WILL use it in public and I hope my husband is around when people give us looks.  I curbed my language, and I need my husband to curb hi or he’ll have to watch the game at a bar.  (I know what a horrible punishment.  Watching a football game while drinking a beer surrounded by other football fans.)  I’m not raising a little hoodlum.

So somehow I got stuck raising boys, which should have been a foregone conclusion because of the all the boys in the families.  Now I have to pray that one day they will grow up to be civilized.  I know this is just the tip of the iceberg; we have elementary and high school yet to got.  It’s going to be a whole lot worse before it gets better.  I just am shocked how certain behaviors are innate.  God help me.