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.

My Week With a Mitsi

THIS IS NOT A SPONSORED POST

Last week my friends at Mitsubishi let me take their latest ASX to test drive. I had done some work with them through my REAL job and made such a song and dance about how much I loved the car that they thought I should get up and close and personal with it, if I wanted.

Um. Yes. I wanted.

So I picked it up on Monday and gushed and got all excited ‘cause I haven’t driven a new car for about nine years and even though this wasn’t a sponsored post I had grand plans of sharing some escapades. Just for some fun.

But then the universe reminded me that I’m a mum. And I’m not allowed to have fun.

The youngest was home sick with me for the rest of the week and he was clingier than glad wrap. I went nowhere in those days, except for the doctor. The weekend was full of me babysitting my godson and attending children’s parties and an incredibly exciting grand final game of football for my victorious eldest which kept me close to home. No escapades then either. But that’s cool. Once I palmed off the kids on Monday I had BIG plans. Tunes, coffee in the hills and my selfie stick.

Except on Sunday night, gastro came to visit my eldest boy and I spent the ENTIRE night up with him. How much chuck can a ten year old chuck if a ten year old could chuck, chuck?? Fuck. Me.

So on Monday I was in a walking coma. And clearly wasn’t driving anywhere.

Tuesday was better but I had shitloads of work to catch up on after the 24 hour spew-fest so I didn’t leave the house except to walk the youngest to school.

Wednesday was the day I needed to return the sexy beast and I decided I would at least take it for a quick fang up the freeway to see how the baby handles. And then I saw it. Some bastard had EGGED THE MITSI!

Who even does that? What a waste of an egg.

It took me TWENTY MINUTES and a whole lot of elbow grease to get that hardened shit off the car. So now I only had 45 minutes left until my scheduled return. No coffee in the hills then.

Ever the optimist, I cranked that stereo [digital radio, yes please], opened the sky roof and drove like I was single, young and on the run.

I hit a comfortable 100kms on the outside lane of the freeway and was just settling in to my micro road trip when the unthinkable happened.

A mother duck was shepherding her five little ducklings across my lane.

What the what now??? Is this shit happening? So the song is true. Five little ducks really did go out one day…

And you know those ducklings were just not listening don’t you? Oh I felt Mother Duck’s pain. I could almost hear her quacking “Stop fighting! You have to waddle quicker. You’re going the wrong way. There’s a car coming! Hurry up! Do you want a peck? You’re going the wrong way! FFS - THERE’S A CAR COMING!!!! Where the fuck is your father?”

So I did what any fellow mother of the sisterhood would do. I checked my rearview mirror to make sure the lane was clear and I stopped my car. At 100kms. On the freeway. And Mother Duck looked me in the eye with a barely perceptible nod which I mirrored. In solidarity. We’ve ALL been there Mother Duck.

Continuing on my way I hit the Heysen Tunnels and sexy beast says ‘You’ve already got too many things on your mind, I got this’ and just turns the headlights on for me. Automatically. Love it.

I hit picturesque Stirling and then make my way back. I’m gunning it on the freeway on-ramp, because you all know it’s there so you can hit the freeway at the right speed right? And I am at the required speed to enter and the lane is free and just as I hit the broken line which indicates the END of the on-ramp some fuckhead motorist decides to switch lanes. Into that free lane. Just as I’m about to enter. And THEN has the audacity to beep and flash ME for trying to do so. What is wrong with people??? This is how road rage happens. I was raging. On the road.

So I have to enter the freeway from basically 10kms p/h and get to it 100kms p/h in about 3 seconds flat. I had the pedal ON the floor and Sexy Beast was not happy, but came up with the goods anyway. Thanks Sexy Beast and I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings when I was screaming at you to ‘GO! Fucking go!’ I was stressed.

But then I was calm again and the tunes were playing and the sky was passing by above me and the car really handles well. It's smooth and new and the sky was above me and the speakers were working and my bum was toasty warm because of the carseat warmers. Oh yes. Sexy Beast has ALL the bells and whistles. It uses almost NO petrol. Or maybe that was me. 'Cause I didn't bloody drive it anywhere...

I was sad to return to it but loved the time I had and the boys were pretty chuffed that I was driving a Mitsubishi and told ALL the kids and teachers at school. Just so they could say ‘It’s a Mitsi’ over and over and OVER again. 

Well played Mitsubishi.

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?

24 Hours In The Brain of a Sick Mum

The following takes place between 7.30pm Monday night and 7.30pm Tuesday night…

Oh God I feel sick.

I can’t feel sick, it’s Monday night.

It’s probably just a bug.

Of course it’s a bug – the kids probably gave it to me.

Why are the kids always giving me their bugs??

I just need to sleep on it.

If only I COULD sleep, these cramps are hardcore.

Suck it up, it’s Monday night. I can’t be sick.

Take a couple of Panadol.

And a cup of tea.

Oh my God, I’m so middle-aged.

Hubby can get the kids to bed.

Why isn’t he getting the kids to bed?

How long is he letting them stay up?

And now they’re fighting. Over who is having their shower first.

Why do my children hate being clean?

What did I do wrong?

Will you put the bloody kids to bed!

I have to go to sleep or I’ll be sick tomorrow.

Tomorrow is Tuesday, I can’t be sick.

Thank God I finally fell asleep, what time is it?

Only midnight? I’ve still got cramps.

Curl up in the foetal position, oh wait…

Why is there no room next to me?

Oh FFS, why can’t my youngest stay in his bed all night?

I have to go to the toilet.

No I don’t.

Yes I do.

Diarrhea. Yep, it’s a bug.

But I’m still in pain.

Go back to sleep, I've got to be up early.

2am. Still sore.

3am. Still sore.

4am. For fucks sake.

6.30am. Oh I must be getting better.

Thank God hubby is getting the kids breakfast.

Need extra time in bed.

I’ll be fine.

I’ll just walk them to the end of the street and then come back home to lay down.

Of course hubby doesn't have to miss his breakfast meeting.

I’ll be fine!

I really should get up and make lunches.

Oh but it hurts.

Don’t be ridiculous, it’s just a bug and I have to make lunches.

Ok I’m up.

Oh shit, no I’m not.

Why does it hurt so much?

This isn’t right.

It’s not a bug.

Where’s my phone?

Google – a.p.p.e.n.d.i.c.i.t.i.s

Read, read, gasp, read.

Fuck.

Hubby’s going to freak.

Don't be so stupid, just call him.

Sorry hon, but you’ll have to come home. I can’t walk properly.

I think it’s appendicitis.

What do you mean – how do I know? I’m a mother. We know things.

But maybe I’m wrong.

Maybe it’s cancer!

Why do I think everything is cancer?

I should go to hospital.

But it’s not an emergency, don’t be such a drama queen!

I’ll just see my GP.

He’ll know what to do.

Oh no. My kids are making their own lunches.

What kind of a mother lets her kids make their own lunches? Get up!

I'll just have to sit down to butter the bread.

This is a first world problem. Mothers in Africa don't stop just because they have a bit of pain.

Of course it’s a first world problem! It’s my problem and I live in the first world.

Mummy’s fiiiine.

But Dad’s on his way to take you to school.

Are their bags packed properly?

I bet they didn’t brush their teeth.

Why do my kids hate being clean?

What the fuck is wrong with them?

Just get to the doctor, he’ll know what to do.

Sorry what? It is appendicitis? Oh. Acute appendicitis.

Do not make a joke about your appendix being cute, it’s not funny.

What? Surgery? Today?

Who’s going to pick the kids up from school?

I need my slippers from home.

What about their dinner?

I should have eaten breakfast.

Keyhole surgery sounds ok.

Standard procedure.

Walk in the park.

How long do I have to be in hospital?

A couple of days, that’s not too bad.

Are the boys’ uniforms clean?

What do you mean I can’t drive for a week?

What about footy training?

So glad I had a shower.

I should have shaved my legs.

Blegh, this hospital tea is bland.

Must remember to get some teabags from home.

I’m such a tea snob.

Oh it feels nice to lay down and do nothing.

Why don’t I rest during the day?

No-one would know.

Real mothers don’t rest during the day, idiot. That’s an urban myth.

Do I have to be naked under the gown?

Just bra-less? That’s doable.

Time for the drip to be inserted.

Show no fear – you’ve pushed babies out of your vagina woman!

Look away and pretend to be distracted.

She’s such a kind nurse!

I could never be a nurse.

What it’s time already?

Be cool.

Standard procedure. First world problem.

I’m going to be fine.

Why is it always so cold in the operating theatre?

How good does the heated blanket feel?

I need a blanket warmer at home – it’s like a warm hug.

Aren’t they going to ask me to count to ten or something?

Why are my kids here?

Wait, am I out already?

Keep your eyes open woman, they’re telling you about their day.

Turn to hug them.

No, no, no DO NOT turn! OW!

Smile.

Let them know you’re ok.

Show no fear.

Ask hubby to take them home and switch off the light on the way out.

Aaah… drugged out bliss.

I should get some of this stuff for home.