DW is the only boy in our house. For a long time I had hoped that a third child would be in the cards for us – a boy to be specific. An inquisitive, charming, rambunctious and loving little boy. DW is out numbered. He is engulfed in pink and pouty faces, melt-downs over bad hair days, freak-outs over faulty fashion, and endless amounts of ever-changing, ever evolving girl “drama”. (And I truly wish that I could say that I did not contribute to any of that chaos, but alas, I am a girl as well.)
My boy barraged girlfriends insist that it must be so much quieter in my house without the sounds of pretend gunfight, wrestling matches or indoor sporting events on the furniture. They also like to remind me of how smelly sweaty little boys are after an afternoon of outdoor play or what dinner is like during a belching bonanza. I am reminded of all the gender differences and that perhaps I have been given exactly what I can handle.
Have they ridden in my car while The Hare has an uncontrollable bout of gaseous bowel blurps after a day of eating nothing but black bean and cheese tacos? Or perhaps they have missed the episodes of erupting belches from The Tortoise after betting her sister that she can chug her soda faster. And the toxic odor that rises out of the hamper after a week of soccer and gymnastic practices requires a mask and rubber gloves. Sometimes I just consider throwing the whole load out and buying new. But above all else, I truly can’t imagine any rough playing being louder than two girls screaming at the top of their lungs, throwing things at each other because someone didn’t ask permission before borrowing something.
“GET OUT OF MY ROOM FORRRREEEVERRRRR!”
*Slam…stomp, stomp, stomp. Slam.*
A few days ago, DW came into the bedroom chuckling. He had just finished saying goodnight to the girls.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
“Just as I bent down to kiss The Hare goodnight, she let out this giant man-sized toot.”
“And that’s funny?”
“Well, no, but then she said – I guess I have more of you in me than I thought”.