Dear Mother of All Boys

Dear Mother of All Boys,

I see you there, with your tired eyes and heart bursting with love. You are a mix of exhaustion and gratitude and pride. Just like all other mothers but something about having all boys, sets you apart. Just a bit. There’s something about only having sons that changes the mother experience. I know this because many of my friends are mothers of all boys. I know this especially, because so am I.

It’s not something that is easy to put a finger on but there is certainly something special about having a family full of sons. From what I can tell, the dynamic is different than in the families of only daughters or those with both sons and daughters. And the perspective definitely is. Years of managing testosterone will do that a woman.

People will say ridiculous things to you. “I don’t know how you cope! Boys are so… boisterous/loud/energetic/difficult. You’ve got your hands full! You need a daughter” They will dress it up as if they are sharing knowledge, but they don’t know anything because those people are almost definitely not mothers of all boys.

If they were they would understand having all sons does not mean that the family is incomplete without a daughter.

They would understand that yes, the days are loud in a house of all boys. The volume level can reach insane, shut-the-fuck-up heights from playing and cheering to all-out arguing but that only makes the quiet time so much more precious.

They would understand that the very same boys that try to actually physically destroy each other for such heinous acts as touching each other’s stuff, changing the tv channel in the middle of a show or teasing each other for missing a goal will also spend hours side by side watching a movie or playing PS4. Often in the same day.

There are a lot of balls in your life when you’re a mother of all boys. There are quite literally balls everywhere. In our household we have basketballs, footballs, soccer balls, tennis balls, bouncing balls, cricket balls, petanque balls, billiard balls, ping pong balls, marbles, ball-bearings and testes. Yes, I mention testes because in our house one can not mention ‘balls’ without a snigger, smirk or all out guffaw from the boys. Balls=testicles. All day. Every day.

The washing line is full of jocks and socks and there are grass stains on all the pants knees. We go through fifteen litres of milk a week and a box of band-aids every month. Grazes, cuts, burns, splinters and blisters all feature heavily around these parts. And just for the record… boys do cry. Big rolling tears, often mixed with sweat that drop onto mum’s shirt as she holds her crying son to her bosom. “Oh my God! Mum said ‘bosom’! Bahahahaha… that is SO wrong Mum.” Boobs=hilarious. All day. Every day.

Farts are extremely popular. Smelling them, doing them, pretending you didn’t do them and making fake fart noises using ANYTHING are also hilarious. Interestingly, flushing the toilet is not popular at all. Probably because most of the wee doesn’t make it into the actual bowl anyway. There is piss on the floor. Constantly.

Mothers of sons and daughters will look upon you with a mix of pity and admiration as they can only imagine that your job must be twice or thrice as hard as hers is in your family of boys because her boy is possibly the troublesome one in her household. But for many reasons boys with only brothers seem to level each other out rather than egg each other on. Except for when they are actually egging each other on… that shit happens constantly and it NEVER ends well.

The competition is relentless in a family of all boys. There has to be a ‘first’ for everything. First to the car, in the shower, to leave the table, ready for school, in the pool, to the end of the street, to finish a game. And when they’re not competing they’re daring each other to jump, to taste or to climb. Often these dares or competitions end in a fight or tears or both but then it’s forgotten. Boys don’t hold grudges… for long.

There are no real mood-swings. Yet. There are only two moods. On and off. And despite what many may think about boys communicating, there’s A LOT of chatter. Sometimes too much… just like in other families.

My boys are messy and smelly even though I’ve taught them to put their stuff away and they shower every day. They have massive feet and sinewy legs and I can see their ribcage even though they eat constantly. They seem to be endlessly moving but when they stop I can still see the babies they were. They can’t help but gravitate to either one of their parents when we sit on the couch at night together and they are most comfortable resting their head on our shoulder or wrapping their long, skinny legs around ours. Boys may be boisterous but they’re affectionate too and there’s nothing sweeter than seeing a boy that isn’t afraid to cuddle their mum and dad especially after a tough a game of contact sport.

Having all boys seems to reduce the risk of subconsciously stereotyping. There are no gender specific behaviours in our household because there is only one gender [Mum doesn’t count. She is genderless. She is just MUM] So the boys cook and clean and pick flowers and go clothes shopping and listen to music and dance. There is no ‘daddy’s little girl’ or ‘princess’ or ‘mummy’s boy’ or ‘little man of the house’. There are just sons and brothers.

And there’s something about watching brothers together that warms my heart. Of course I know plenty of sisters who are close with their brother [I’m one of them!] but maybe it’s because I feel so strongly about MY brother that I’m so happy that both my sons have a brother too.

Dear Mother of All Boys, I want you to know that I LOVE my all-boy family. They teach me so many things all the time and I’m positive that being immersed in a world of testosterone and male energy has made me a better woman. It’s tiring and exhausting and there’s piss all over the bathroom floor but it’s also complete and chockablock full of gorgeous boyish love.

Plus, I save a fortune on hand-me-downs.

The Playdate V2.015

We didn’t have playdates when I was growing up. We just went to our friend’s houses. Our mums often didn’t even check if that was ok with each other… or if they were even home. I’d leave the house on my bike [without a helmet] and say “I’m going to Liz’s” and Mum would say “ok” and that would be the entire logistical arrangement for the visit. Then when I arrived at Liz’s, unexpected but welcome nonetheless, we would tell her mum “We’re going to Allison’s” and she would say “ok” and off we would go. And at some stage [before the street lights came on] we would all end up home again. Tired but happy and already wondering what and who the next day had in store for us.

Kids from the neighbourhood would turn up at our front door, bold as you like and say “Hi, is Tania home?” and if Mum was in the mood, she would welcome them in and direct them to my room or the backyard or wherever I was and we would just hang out. There were no activities. There were no pre-prepared snacks. If we complained about being hungry Mum would tell us to have a piece of fruit or make a sandwich. Chips and packaged snacks were party food so there was never any of that in the house and if there WAS some, it was for special guests. Not bratty kids just dropping around hoping to freeload the ‘for special guests treats’.

When we were kids, fronting up at a friend’s house uninvited was so normal that we didn’t care if we were welcome or not. If they weren’t allowed to play that day, we accepted that and moved on. We then decided for ourselves whether it was worth trying another friend nearby or whether we should just head home. And every day we developed resilience. Being turned away from friends’ and neighbours’ homes were gentle and appropriate rejections that strengthened our emotional muscle. I never understood the importance of those rites of passage. Until today.

My eldest took himself off to his own playdate today. For the first time. In his ten years of living.

When I watched him ride off down the street, with nothing but his tennis racket on his back I felt a twinge of anxiety. I’ve written about letting go before so these feelings are nothing new. Except they are. Every time he takes another step toward independence there is a new feeling in my heart. Every time he makes another decision without my counsel I see his chest grow with the breath of the man he is becoming. I watched him overcome his own anxieties too. He did a dry run before the main event earlier in the morning and yesterday he asked me to drive past his friend’s place so he knew exactly where it was and how to get there. As he was preparing to leave at precisely the time we had worked out he needed to in order to arrive punctually [VERY important to this child] he ran through his own checklist with me “So Mum, this is the way I’m going to go [explains, in detail, his route]. It should only take me about 3 minutes [yes, he's THAT precise] shouldn’t it? And then I’ll come back the same way… but how will I know it’s time to leave?”

Whoa. At that moment I understood that there are so many important lessons in independence that our ‘new’ way of parenting is robbing our kids of. How can I expect my boys to make the right choices, when they are not given enough opportunity to make any at all. If I am making all of their social arrangements, for example, without their involvement what are they learning? Until today, I would tell him when we need to leave, drop him off and tell him when I would be back. Until today, I’m certain he paid no attention to any of that. He just went on his merry way until such time as I returned to collect him or his friend’s mum brought him home.

The way things were done when I was a kid weren’t altogether right, by any means, but I don’t reckon the way things are done today are either. I’m looking for the sweet spot in the middle of the two for my lot.

So today, for the first time ever, I made arrangements with his friend’s mum ENTIRELY by text. I didn’t send him off with a drink and BYO snacks. I didn’t settle him in and tell him when I would return. I texted the mum when he left home and she texted me when he arrived. It was ALMOST like the way we used to do ‘playdates’ back in the day. Almost.

#babysteps

I miss having a pram

If you are new to the parenting gig or still have young babies at home you will almost definitely have heard at least one person tell you to ‘savour every moment’ or to ‘enjoy this time because it goes so quickly’ or something along those lines. And you may be like me and think quietly to yourself ‘ummmm… I didn’t ask you and having a baby is hard work and can’t you see I’m exhausted and who the fuck gives unsolicited advice to a stranger at the shopping centre anyway??!” Or you may be far more gracious and evolved than that and smile and say “I know” because you may actually know.

I’m not here to tell you those things. Because you didn’t ask and you probably are absolutely exhausted and I know better than to mess with an exhausted mamma with a kid on her boob and quite possibly another one drawing on the sofa in permanent texta.

What I will tell you in ALL MY WISDOM AND EXPERIENCE is that there are some things about those days that you’re in the midst of that I miss. Oh, don’t worry, I’m as shocked as you are.

I miss having a pram.

I loved the moment that I passed my boys’ prams on to my sister-in-law. It heralded the day of grown-up little boys who could walk next me and I had so much more room in my boot! But man, shopping was so much easier with a pram! Now when I go shopping I have to actually CARRY all the bags. I have to hold my coffee and there’s nowhere to hang all the clothes I’m considering buying as I continue browsing. Plus, when my kids whinge that they’re tired I have to actually do something about it instead of just leaning back the seat and suggesting they close their eyes for a minute [hour]. Also, the best parks in the shopping centres are the PRAM PARKS. I miss them too.

I miss being fat.

Easy everyone. I’m allowed to say ‘fat’. I really was fat when I was pregnant. I put on 20kg with my first and 25kg with my second. Those babies were both under 3.5kgs so god knows what I needed all the rest of that extra ‘me’ for but man was there extra! Even my face was big. It was an uncomfortable time and I felt like I was pushing maximum density but it was also so liberating! I was huge and it was wonderful. No hiding it. No sucking anything in or covering up. I was loud and proud pregnant. Now I’m all like ‘does my bum look big in everything?’ when before I just didn’t care. Did. Not. Care. I miss that.

I miss breastfeeding in the middle of the night.

I cannot believe I’m saying this. I seriously can’t but I really, really do miss it. Yeah it’s tiring. Yeah there were many, many nights that I desperately hoped my son would sleep through. Yeah I resented my husband plenty of times for being able to continue sleeping while I was y’know nourishing his child with my body with milk that I made. But here’s the thing. I made milk, people. I created life and then I made the only food that went into that human being for six months. I was the sole reason that baby was alive and thriving. And sometimes, in the fog of exhaustion, all of that was clear to me and those moments were some of the most validating and empowering moments of my entire life. And the love! Oh my stars the love. In the dead of night when it felt like the rest of the entire world was sleeping and it was just me and my son together in the lamp-light and there was nowhere else I needed to be [except asleep in bed] and nothing else needed my attention and there was nothing more important than feeding my baby [except sleeping] it was possible to just drink in the preciousness of the moment. Now I have to negotiate in terrorism-esque conditions just to have him finish off his dinner and put his plate in the dishwasher without scowling. Ungrateful. He used to adore me.

I miss the warmth of carrying a baby next to my heart.

Ok so I think I miss this so much at the moment because it is bloody FREEZING this winter. I’m putting on the electric blanket and going to bed at 8.30pm just to defrost my brain so I can think straight. I remember when my babies were permanently attached to me and they were so warm! Their little swaddled bodies rested against my heart and my days were spent kissing their sweet warm, round heads. I miss the feeling of cold when I would put them down [you should NEVER let your baby sleep in your arms all day – I can’t remember the reason why but apparently it was very bad parenting] like something was missing from me. My babies kept me warm and I miss the pureness of that. Now I’m too scared to kiss their head because I’m sure they never actually wash their face in the shower and who knows what hideous germs they’ve brought home from school on that head.

I miss stewing fruit and vegetables.

Oh those early solids! It used to drive me nuts having all those little ziplock bags full of various cubes of pureed food in the freezer. Organic fruits, veggies and meats all labeled and dated. What a hassle! What a moron. That was paradise. Going out for the day? Just pop a selection of ice-cubes in your snack pack next to the teething rusks and you’re good to go! Nowadays I’ve got to pack two different types of sandwiches, drinks, chips and be expected to fork out for a treat [which will definitely NOT be organic] while we’re out. And I’ll have to remind them AGAIN to use their manners. And stop kicking each other.

I miss changing nappies.

Nappies. Blegh. Except they’re not blegh. They were [usually] well-contained, sanitary human waste options. Sure, they cost a fortune but I had those awesome, scented nappy disposal bags which just packaged them up and in the bin. And those cute little bums that were all lovely and clean ‘cause I could use wet wipes were delightful! Now? There’s piss on the seat and on the bathroom floor. There’s shit stuck on the side of the toilet bowl and skid marks in jocks. Those bums are at the end of very long, skinny, hairy legs with dirty knees. I miss changing nappies.

I miss rocking a baby to sleep.

JUST GO TO SLEEP! I remember thinking this a million times. Yes, really – ONE MILLION TIMES. When my boys were babies, I was obsessed with getting them to sleep. OB.SESSED. Them? Not so much. How hard is it? “YOU’RE TIRED BABY. Close your eyes and go to sleep. Here, watch how easy it is for Mummy.” I hated being in those trenches. But fuck I miss it now. Rocking a baby to sleep is a walk in the park compared to sending a defiant 10 year old to bed. Pat, pat, pat and a bit of singing vs an all-out screaming match with threats of taking away everything that’s in any way important in the 10 year old life? It’s a no-brainer. Pass me that baby.

I miss toddler tantrums.

Toddlers are hard work. They are demanding and inflexible on so many levels. They’re loud and emotional and exhausting. Just when you think you’ve worked them out, they do a full 180 [figuratively, emotionally and sometimes physically] and you’re left standing there with triangle toast pieces thrown all over the floor and a crying monster screaming that they only eat squares. There were some days that I didn’t think I could cope. Coping was a breeze. How easy is it to make another piece of toast and cut it properly? Or clean up the toast from the floor and ignore their screaming until they wore themselves out? Or even distract them? Tantrums these days involve slamming doors and stand-offs that last hours and harsh consequences. And I reckon I’m not far off the dreaded ‘I hate you!’. Yep, toddler tantrums were a walk in the park by comparison.

I miss living by a 24 hour clock.

I hated living by a 24 hour clock. It was relentless but now I miss it. I miss the time when the only commitments I needed to meet were bath time, tummy time and the next feed. When I could lose HOURS of my day encouraging my son to roll and nothing else would be affected by that lost time. When that was not even considered ‘lost time’. That was called parenting and the things my baby did was called development. Now it’s all actions and consequences and attitude. LOTS of attitude.

What do you miss that you never you never thought you would?

Hosting The Double Playdate

I’m half way through the first week of the school holidays. The winter school holidays. I’m also at the end of an all day double playdate. A double playdate is one where each of my boys has one of their friends over. That’s four boys under ten in my house that I work from home from. Are you on board the train to hell yet?

Of course, I didn’t make these arrangements by accident. I thought them out and stupidly idiotically naïvely thought it would be EASIER having playmates for my kids. So then I could continue to work from home while they entertained themselves. Oh, don’t worry. I can see you shaking your head from here.

It’s not like the entire day was hell. There were moments of sheer glory. When each son played quietly in their respective bedrooms with their mates. Lego and Test Match Cricket kept them entertained for about 45 minutes each. They did a bit of ball kicking outside and there were the PS4 sessions which peppered the day and thankfully didn’t consume it.

But kids these days [oh FFS, did I actually just say that??] don’t cope with boredom too well. And in the down times they were stuck. And every time they got stuck they gravitated to a screen. And I wanted to scream. Which of course I couldn’t because we had outsiders in the house. Outsiders whose mums undoubtedly DON’T scream and probably smile with amusement when their kids complain that they’re bored and come up with some interesting activity that grows their kids’ brains or something.

So I went all ‘perfect mother’ on their bored arses and serenely suggested they ‘go outside’… “go have some fun boys! Kick the ball or play basketball or climb a tree!”

And eight eyes were rolled. And four of them looked apologetic and possibly even dismayed that those words came out of THEIR mum’s head. I can just imagine what the outsiders said when they got home. “It was ok Mum but their mum told us to go outside. In the winter – who does that?”

So they did go outside for a while and then they moped around from room to room trying to come up with an idea to stop the boredom. Because life is so boring. This life which is full of board games and ball games and friendships. And I tried to ignore them and not intervene with my ridiculous suggestions. At one point I heard one of the outsiders ask one of my boys “So what do you usually do?” and I strained to listen to the answer because I wanted to know too…

Back in my day [yes, I'm going there] kids would just rock up at their friend's houses. There were no playdates and there were no activities. There were just mates hanging out in each other's space. If that got boring you'd head out into the street to see who else was around and then there'd be a posse of bored kids. Which, just quietly, didn't always end well... if you catch my drift! The point is, you sorted shit out yourself. If I ever had the balls to whinge to Mum that me and friends were bored she'd make us weed the garden! 

I had one activity totally worked out for them. If you have sons then you will know that they could fill their entire day simply with eating so I covered that off. Fruit and lollies and homemade pizza and hotdogs and juices and popcorn and donuts. All the essential boy food groups were covered. But boys tend to inhale food, on the run so that filled up about an hour, in total, of their day. Or should I say, ‘our’ day.

They worked it out in the end. They made a game that involved all four of them. One person had to hide a small ball and the rest of them had to find it. Sounds pretty cool huh? Yep. Except that the game is played INSIDE and part of the rules seemed to be that while you were searching for the small ball you all had to scream. That’s four boys SCREAMING in my house and it took all my efforts to NOT tell them to use their ‘inside voices’ or ‘go outside’ or say anything at all to discourage the game because I was pretty happy that they had done almost exactly what I had hoped. They made up their own game, inclusive of everyone that didn’t involve a screen. Just a whole lot of fucking SCREAM.

Of course all attempts to work at that time had became entirely futile. Because they were screaming and running around the house in socks on hard floors and there are corners on all the furniture and doorways and no matter how hard I try to remember I constantly forget that my kids aren’t toddlers anymore. So I wiped the kitchen benches multiple times while smiling and gently reminding the boys to ‘take it easy’ and ‘slow down’ and ‘watch your head’ as they zoomed past me in laps.

A hundred times that day, I wondered why I did it. And then our guests were gone and so was the noise and the boys were tired and so grateful.

And it all made sense.

Are you into hosting playdates?