I admit it. I was naive. I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I was in over my head before I even got to the pool. There is no way in hell I could have ever been prepared for raising boys. I HAVE to believe that it isn't just my boys. I have to. There isn't enough anti-depressant medication on the planet for me if the other pre-teen boys of the earth aren't also giving their parents one flat-hand-to-the-forehead-DOH moment after another after another after another...
In my defense, it isn't my fault I wasn't prepared. I blame my parents. Hell, I blame all the parents on my street growing up. Not a single one of them had a boy. Nope. Girl city. Every family on the street with kids had girls. The first boy appeared when a family that I babysat for had a boy (not exactly my peer group), and then a family that moved in during junior high, again with younger boys. Yes, I had male cousins. Yes, I witnessed their carnage, and yes I will even admit to participating in some of it. Some. But lets be honest, I could blame their behavior on genetics, just like my parents did with my behavior. I also didn't get to witness the daily goings-on that happen with boys. I could tell myself that the things that happened when I was around them were only once-in-a-while things, not all day every day things. There is just no way I could have known about the things my boys would do and the things that would come out of my mouth as their mom.
The things I have witnessed my boys do, and the explanations they have given me for the things I have witnessed, have often left me speechless. And usually not in a good way. One time Lil' Dude comes in the house crying and holding the back of his head. Logically, I ask what happened, as I examined the back of his head (to make a determination on which hospital or urgent care clinic we would need to visit, since I have them mapped out and categorized by need - stitches can be dealt with at urgent care, potential concussion goes to ER, etc), he emphatically informs me that his older brother hit him "on purpose!" with a rock "right in the back of the head". I call Big Dude in, to demand an explanation, of course. His explanation? "Mom, we were playing a game where you try to hit the other person with rocks, and I won." I turn in astonishment to Lil' Dude, he calmly informs me "Well, yeah, that is true." Are you effing kidding me?!?! No. No they weren't.
I try to tell myself that its because they are especially creative (read, intelligent??) because the only other explanations is that they are complete bone heads who aren't going to be able to find their way out of a wet paper bag. And I think some of the things they have done could, possibly fall into the realm of "creativity"...like the time I had to stop a phone conversation and inform Lil' Dude that he needed to untie his blanket-rope creation from his belt loop and remove it from the upstairs banister because he was NOT, in fact, allowed to play "Rescue Swimmer" and rappel down into the living room from the upstairs hallway. Or the time I informed them (and 3 friends) to get off the roof of the shed because it was a BAD idea to jump onto each other from up there while playing "Army Ranger Ambush". Or this Christmas when Big Dude was emphatically, unequivocally, 100% told NO, that he may not frost his snowman cookie anatomically correct.
Who thinks like this?? Who comes up with these ideas and says "Yeah, that seems like it could work. Let's do it!"?? Probably the same boys that took all of their Christmas tree ornaments out of the boxes, as we were preparing for tree decorating, and lined them all up, little green-army-guy-style, and began "pechew! pechew!"-ing at each other. Sponge Bob and a cute, innocent, felt-covered teddy bear apparently in an armed battle with a cowboy cactus and Pluto. WTF?? The most mundane of activities becomes something it was never intended to be. Give them a box of hand-me-down beanie babies (from a family friend who is an ex-collector) and what do you get? A new game, called Civil War, where they each get half the beanies, and hunker down on their bunk beds, trying to peg each other as many times as possible, usually until someone starts crying or something gets broken. Let them watch Survivor with you and what do you get? Survivor challenges set up throughout the house and timed races through these obstacle courses which have a history of ending with trips to the ER for someone to get stitches in the back of their head after falling down the stairs because "I was Ozzy and Ozzy CAN'T lose!". See what I mean?
Don't get me wrong. When I'm not wringing my hands in fear and anxiety, Doh-ing my forehead in shock, or red-faced and seething in frustration, I adore these Dudes. They are my world and can crack the shit out of me. I have found times when their creativity gets me laughing so hard, diet coke will come spraying out of my nose. Like the time my sister videoed Big Dude dancing to "My Ding-a-Ling" in his bathing suit at my mom's pool. Or the time Lil' Dude came upstairs to inform us that his cousin was stuck in a tipped over toy in the basement and said, "I asked her if she could handle a little bit of pain, and she said 'No' so there isn't much I can do to help her." I find it hard sometimes to balance the responsible, adult reaction with the hysterical laughing "Holy shit, that is hilarious!" response that is often my first instinct.
The days of the year that now scare me most, more than Halloween or any episode of Jersey Shore, are birthday's and Christmas. When they open up their gifts and see the new and wondrous toys that were purchased with such loving thought and care, I immediately start cataloging in my head all the different ways that said toy can become a weapon or projectile, and how it can be modified by the Dudes for some alternate and destructive, yet fun, new purpose. I can't wait to see what they come up with this year. I guess that is what coffee and Bailey's is for, huh? And wine. And Jack. And.........
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