My Kid Can Get Your Kid to Pee on Furniture...and My Other Kid Will Tattle on Him

Last Saturday, my rockstar friend Cindy invited me and three out of my four kids to eat dinner at her house. The plan was to let the kids play and to enjoy some much needed and hard to come by time hanging out with a good girlfriend. God bless her husband, who not only cooked burgers and hotdogs, but also endured a noisy dinner that involved getting up multiple times and chewing our food to the backdrop of fart jokes and fake burps.

After dinner we migrated to the backyard, where a fire pit sat popping and waiting for eager little ones to roast marshmallows. When the kids emptied the first bag and retreated inside to play, the grown ups broke out a second bag along with a pack of graham crackers and the largest chocolate bar I've ever laid eyes upon. I was bulldozing my way through my third s'more when Lawson burst through the screen door and declared his friend had peed on the couch.

What?! As the Pre-K teacher of Cindy's son, this little story seemed highly unlikely. Cindy's husband went upstairs to investigate, and I warily did a mental checklist of which Jones boy might have inspired this new development. When her husband returned, he detailed pee puddles on their couch and chair upstairs. When we asked in shocked voices (well, mine was really mock shock because I had already braced myself for what was coming) why he did it, the explanation was simple: Hudson and Lawson told me to do it.

I took the march of shame into the house to call down my little instigators. When I posed the question, "did you tell you friend to pee on the couch?" Lawson looked me squarely in the eyes and said no. Hudson, on the other hand, looked squarely at the spot on the wall above my right shoulder and answered the same way as his brother. Seeing an opening, I admonished Lawson for telling his friend to do such a thing, to which Hudson adamantly responded, "Lawson didn't say anything!"

Lawson was off the hook, so I posed the same question to Hudson. With wide-eyed indignation and a firm hold on his innocence, he declared, "I didn't tell him to pee on the couch! I told him to pee on the stairs!"

Sigh. Not only did my second born child inspire his buddy to do something totally out of character (which by the way is also totally out of character for Hudson), my third son felt it was his civic duty to march downstairs and totally rat him out. Their buddy got a time-out, and my little man will be working on an apology note to his friend this week. I can't help but find humor in the situation, but I know I do so at the risk of undermining the hilarious inappropriate nature of the offense. Needless to say, I will host the next gathering so that any errant urination is at my expense. It's the least I can do.

It's Just Life, and It's a Good One

The holidays so far have been a hodge podge of meaningful moments, stressful disagreements, and sometimes hilarious plans gone awry. We decided to decorate our Christmas tree the Saturday after Thanksgiving, but a delay meant that my blaring of holiday music and menagerie of Christmas ornaments directly conflicted with the Georgia game. The perfect, poignant family afternoon I envisioned in my mind was tarnished by my husband's diverted attention, and after my complaints started escalating toward an argument, our decorating was delayed half an hour as a compromise. He finished the game, I turned the cheesy Christmas music back on, and decorating (translation: my favorite annual walk down Memory Lane) resumed.

I'd like to say from the outside looking in that it was a Norman Rockwell painting waiting to happen, but in all actuality, ornaments were broken, Scout wandered off to roll her baby stroller through the house instead of admiring the tree, and I glued two of my fingers to Camden's favorite homemade ornament in an attempt to salvage it after I dropped and broke it. The chaos was ultimately what gave the day its poignancy, and for a moment, I tried to memorize every detail of the excitement on the boys' faces, the concentration in my husband's eyes as he worked to repair his Lincoln Memorial ornament, and the swelling love I felt in my heart for my little zoo crew.

Yesterday we set out to see Santa at Bass Pro Shop, but we were once again delayed by a football game (in his defense, he missed the game the weekend before to watch the parade of boats down River Street). We rolled out of the driveway at 4:20 in an attempt to make it to the south side by 5:00. Seriously, we never stood a chance, but we had to show the kids we tried. My gas light came on before we even made it off the island, but I was determined not to stop. At 5:03, we rolled into the parking lot at Bass Pro Shop with only one, very unhappy kid awake.

We formed a plan to see Santa next weekend and compromised by agreeing to take them to Toys R Us. At that point, gas was a critical factor in the equation, so I found the nearest Parker's. Tension was running high, and as the hubs stood waiting at the pump, I frantically dug for my wallet--which of course was sitting on the kitchen counter back on Wilmington Island. Jason, who almost never leaves home without his wallet and his keys, managed to pull out pocket lint when he reached for his.

So, we sat at the gas station coming up with a third plan with our new goal being simply to find a way out of the south side (no offense, Georgetown friends) and back onto the comforts of our island. Publix! I had a checkbook! As I got out of the car in the Publix parking lot with my checkbook in hand, it suddenly dawned on my I had no I.D. After digging through the car hoping ten bucks would magically materialize from under the seats, I marched determinedly into the store and told a haphazard, funny tale to the kind gentleman behind the counter, who promptly laughed, took pity on me, and let me cash a check for twenty bucks.

As I pulled out of the parking lot in triumph and prepared to head back to the gas station, I hit the cart return with my van. I could only dissolve into giggles at that point, though Jason found it far less entertaining. The one thing I've learned in five years of driving a mama mobile is to let the vanity fly out the window. It's a kid carting machine, and it serves its purpose well. That cart return never stood a chance against my old girl, and she emerged with nary a scratch.

Our life is a series of perfect mishaps and unexpectedly touching moments of chaos. I often wonder if Jason and I will be bored when our tenure bringing up such extraordinary little creatures is complete and our house is quiet. This blog has given me an opportunity to reflect on what it means to be a family and realize that when you're in it for the long haul, there is no such thing as a wrong turn--just opportunities to learn and grow and laugh at yourselves. This Christmas, the imperfection of my life is what makes it the best kind of life to have.

Ode to Mom Guilt

Ah, Mommy Guilt, the most plaguing and underestimated of all the guilts. It starts as a nagging undercurrent of panic and self-doubt the moment the nurse leaves you on the curb with your wrinkled, helpless newborn in your arms as you wait for your husband to bring the car around to go home. The entire ride home from the hospital may as well be the first time you've been a passenger in a car and looked out the window at your surroundings. The whole world looks completely different, and the perspective through which that familiar drive home is filtered has now been forever altered.

You're a mom. You are half of the responsible party for creating life, you've spent forty weeks growing a person, and now you've got to figure out how to raise a tiny human without completely damaging your child's capacity for happiness and self-worth. No pressure.

If I've learned anything in my seven years as a mother, it's that Mom Guilt never disappears. Rather, it undergoes its own unique metamorphosis that parallels every stage of my children's development. When Camden was two weeks old, I felt guilty because I couldn't get him to latch and traded water blisters and tears for baby formula. Now that he's seven and a headstrong, dramatic, hilarious individual, I feel guilty because I get frustrated with his histrionics more quickly than I should. I worry I'm not promoting his self-worth enough because sometimes I'm just so exhausted from fighting the battle that comes with bringing up a strong-willed child.

With Hudson I feel guilty because he's the middle child, and I don't always know the right ways to boost his self-esteem. I worry Lawson will get lost in the shuffle of four children because he is the most laid back and accommodating of all of our children. Surprisingly, I feel pretty confident in my abilities to handle Scout right now, though I know my fair share of juicy, guilty morsels of sleepless nights lie ahead.

I can't completely bash my friend Mom Guilt, though. It's the voice in my head that tells me to take a step back when I need to or the overpowering urge to hug my children out of the blue. It is part of my motivation to pray with my children on the way to school each morning after an inevitable WWF smack down just to get everyone in the car. It's why I roll my window down to call after them that I love them once they pile out of the van each day just so I know they heard at least one positive word from me to take with them. It's behind every napkin note in their lunch boxes and every "I'm sorry" I utter to them when I lose my temper and handle myself in a disappointing fashion.

Mom Guilt is a double-edged sword of inadequacy and accountability. Every mom has experienced it in some fashion, and every mom has considered how to incorporate it into her daily life without feeling consumed by it. Just in case no one reminds you today (because motherhood is by nature a job without immediate positive feedback), know that what you do is important and of great value. To borrow my favorite tag line from Nick Jr. (a very reputable source), "We're not perfect. We're parents."

 

I Stink I Need A Wubbing Tag

Tonight I took a big step in letting go. I emailed Lawson's teacher about having him evaluated for speech. He's my baby boy, and he has the sweetest, wee voice and mischievous smile. His challenges with certain sounds have never phased him, and when we repeat something especially cute that he says, he smiles a sly smile and basks in the attention. I know it's time, though. His vocabulary is growing, and sometimes his words contain more than one sound that he struggles with. There are many occasions I have to ask him to repeat himself and then listen closely because I didn't catch what he said the first time. He needs to work on his "s" sounds, "r" sounds, "j" sounds, "th" sounds, and "l" sounds. It seems like a long list, yet I'm sad about the thought of his losing his sweet little pronunciations.

I've spent the past few years hiding a smile every time he told me something he "stinks" (thinks). He always asks me not to get hand sanitizer on the "stumb" (thumb) he sucks because it tastes so bad. (Clearly he doesn't grasp the way germs work since the thumb he puts in his mouth is the one that needs the most sanitizer.) He loves double looped tags that he can rub together when he's sleepy, and even Jason and I catch ourselves calling it his "wubbing tag."

It feels like if Lawson learns to correct all of his language quirks, he'll seem like more of a big boy to me than my little man. Already it's hard to imagine that Camden was ever as small as Lawson is when he was in pre-k, though pictures from two years ago clearly demonstrate he was. For some reason unknown to me, I have developed a natural inclination to treat Lawson like the baby because he was my baby for so long. He's still my youngest boy, and watching him and Hudson, for that matter, grow in independence this year has been exciting and sad all at the same time.

Bringing up a strong, independent old soul like Camden, our oldest, has made the path somewhat easier, but I feel much more protective of his younger siblings for some reason. Camden came out ready to greet the world and eager to engage in every aspect of life. Hudson has carefully tested the waters of every situation he's been placed in and proceeded with caution and sensitivity at every turn. Lawson is my go-with-the-flow guy, and I worry sometimes he may have gotten lost in the shuffle because he is so laid back. He's in elementary school now, and I see the amount of knowledge he's gaining increasing tremendously each day. His confidence is growing, too, and every week he comes home talking about a new friend. I looked at him today and realized--despite how hard it will be for me-- I need to let him be a big kid.

I shouldn't be afraid of watching my kids grow older (even though sometimes I am), but I know how much I'll miss his little Boston accent r's when they're gone. Maybe Scout will have her own funny little word sounds for me to enjoy for a few short years.    

Onomatopoeia--BLAM!

Somewhere out there I hope there are fellow writers, English nerds, former students, and gatherers of trivial knowledge who appreciate the blog title. It's one of my favorite words to say, and I recently taught it to my kids. Onomatopoeia is a word that imitates the sound it describes, like BAM! and POP! So far the kids just like to say it five times fast and laugh over how funny it comes out when it's strung together, but I couldn't resist defining it for them when we came across it in their children's stories. 

In what I thought was a cute and clever move, I bought plates and napkins for Camden's birthday party that were covered in onomatopoeia words. See, look how appealing and fun:

But, POW! My plan backfired, and I was faced with a crying, disappointed seven-year-old who had his heart set on Pokemon party napkins and plates. I truly underestimated my nerdy mom appeal because I am apparently the only one who thought these were cool. Seriously. I tried telling some of the moms I didn't know yesterday (because making new friends is my favorite) about my funny little conundrum, and you know what I heard in response? Crickets.

To further burst my bubble, Byrd's Karate actually provided me with plates, napkins, and tablecloths, which was in fact a pretty awesome and unexpected surprise that relegated my purchase unnecessary. But you know what? I'm still going to tuck my little plates and napkins away and smile with smug pride at my find because I believe hiding within every mom and dad is a secret nerd gem that should be nurtured.

You may be nerdy about the law (ahem, Jason) or nerdy about grammar (guilty) or nerdy about cooking, scrapbooking, hair products, sports, makeup, bug species, or the proper way to fold a crease in pants (Jason again--he's pretty much a rare hybrid nerd species). Whatever you're nerdy about, embrace it and be proud and passionate about it. It makes you unique, and it will give your kids great stories to laugh about when they roast you at family get-togethers years from now.

Recognize and support your little one's nerdy passions, too, despite the fact they may be as fleeting as the seasons. Right now, my kids are nerdy about Pokemon and bugs (Camden), assembling ANYTHING from puzzles to Bionicles (Hudson), drawing and coloring (Lawson), and garnering as much positive attention as possible through undeniable cuteness (Scout). We try to learn about their interests when we can, even when Hudson shakes his head in disgust at my inability to read the Lego instructions properly. I get to be part of their little worlds, and I get to let them into my dorky little world, too. I already garner eye rolls from them, so I shudder to think of all the ways I will embarrass them during their teenage years. Hopefully I'm cultivating something strong enough to fight the sour attitude of puberty.  

Ultimately, I will probably return the plates and napkins to Wal Mart and get my ten bucks back, but I like to believe I'll think of them fondly every time I see BLAM! written somewhere. Carpe diem, my nerdy friends!    

The Beauty and Blessing of Grandparents

A few months ago I was suddenly struck by the memory of my Granny Jean singing next to me in church with her soft, sweet voice. I had spent years of my childhood at her house, spending every New Year's Eve with her and, once my parents divorced, every third weekend (the weekend my dad had to work his shift at Georgia Power). As an anxious kid, I never made it through the night in her dark, creepy den on the pullout sofa with my brother. I somehow always migrated to her bed and eventually quit trying to sleep anywhere else.

After my parents' divorce, Granny Jean bore a large brunt of the anger I felt. She was always patient with me, letting me skulk through her house with a surly look on my face or mumble incoherent answers to her questions. She let me sleep late on Saturday mornings and always had buttered wheat toast with grape jelly waiting for me once I dragged myself out of bed. Sometimes we could convince her to take us to Hardee's and then to the playground at Bowdon Elementary School. I wonder if these long afternoons with us were tedious or tiring to her after she had paid her dues bringing up four boys.

On Sundays skipping out on church was not an option. Though I'm glad for her determination now, those Sundays at Bowdon Baptist were torture for me. There was a street sign posted adjacent to the parking lot that read "Slow...Church," and I remember thinking the sign was there to warn us the service was boring. To make matters worse, I was an angry, confused girl in the throes of puberty who was being brought up primarily by her dad. He tried really hard during those dark times, but for a few years, my hair was a disaster, I had huge pink plastic glasses, and my self-esteem and confidence levels were extremely low. I felt like an outsider in Sunday school because I was the only one who didn't go to Bowdon, and my pain each time I was there was even more marked than usual.

Granny Jean rarely lost her temper with me. She somehow just knew I was hurting and tried her best to help by giving me unconditional love and stability. She told stories of how excited my Papa Hal was that I was a little girl, and often reminded me of her favorite "Molly story" involving my deep love for Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. One of the few high points of sitting next to her in church was listening to her sing the hymns. Her voice was soft but strong and rich with conviction.

When I was old enough to stay at home alone on Daddy's work weekends, I felt free of Sunday church service, but I always looked forward to Sunday nights at Granny Jean's house. She cooked a delicious meal complete with homemade sourdough bread and the best buttermilk pound cake I've ever tasted. She would reminisce about my dad's and uncles' childhoods and tell stories of my Papa Hal. She would rattle off the list of friends she visited or took to the doctor that week. She took piano lessons and was a member of the Canasta Club. She never remarried once my Papa Hal passed away in 1986, and I often wondered if she was lonely. I admired her independence, and her sweet smile always comforted me.

In 1997, I returned to Bowdon Baptist to attend church with my college sweetheart, and my relationship with Granny Jean flourished. She was disappointed when my boyfriend and I broke up after four years, but Jason's charm and love for me and our kids have long eased her disappointment.  We were at her house to celebrate my 26th birthday the night we broke the news to my family that we were expecting our first baby. Interacting with her after I became a wife and mother further deepened my connection to her.

In the past few years, she has developed memory problems, and her degeneration has been heartbreaking for me to witness. In August 2010, my parents brought her to Savannah, and we spent a day pushing her in a wheelchair her through the city, often with Scout sitting in her lap. The last night she was here, she suddenly got up, gathered her things, took her keys out of her purse, and said she better get home before it got too late. When Dad and Cathy gently tried to explain to here where she was, she didn't remember how she got to my house or that I had even moved a few months prior. I sobbed once they left to go back to the hotel.

Old age is certainly not for sissies, and my Granny Jean has never been one to fall into the sissy category. She is firm and stubborn with a kindness that simply radiates from her. Last May she moved to an assisted living facility into the room across the hall from her childhood friend. She has good days and bad days, but right now she remembers me. Her musical voice is quick to ask about "the children" every time we talk, which I'm sad to say isn't as much as it should be. My heart hurts after each conversation, and I sometimes wish such distance wasn't between us.

A few weeks ago, Jason and I joined Granny Jean and my aunt and uncle at Bowdon Baptist's homecoming celebration. As soon as the pianist struck the first keys to the hymn, Granny Jean's voice rang out strong and clear. I was moved to tears at such a personally poignant moment, and I reached over to hold her hand for a moment.

How blessed I have been for her play such a strong role in my life. She had a profound influence on the determination I found to overcome the pain of my childhood and a diagnosis of clinical depression when I was twenty. She helped make me the mother I am today, and her enduring love for my grandfather is inspirational. Our third son is named Lawson Charlie in honor of her father (Charlie Aubrey Kidd), her (Charlie Jean Kidd Steed), and my father (Charlie Aubrey Steed). Our kids will carry with them the joy of knowing her and experiencing her love and kindness. I treasure every moment I've shared with her, and I will continue to admire her spunk and beautiful spirit even after she forgets my name and beyond.    

And So It Begins

When I found out I was pregnant with my first child, I was so excited. I felt as if I had officially ushered myself right into adulthood simply by choosing to procreate. Jason and I had only been married for six months, and we found ourselves in a dual alternate universe of newlyweds and expectant parents. I was a cow by the time our first anniversary rolled around, which helped me feel a lot less guilty about indulging in our frozen wedding cake.

When I checked into the hospital for an induction with Camden, I was stoked instead of scared. I have never been one to back down from a challenge, and at the end of this challenge, I got to hold my son. What could be better? HA! I really should have brushed up on my details of what degrading smaller events within the big event come with delivering a baby, particularly your first baby. After a very effective enema, twenty hours of laboring sans epidural, an impatient jackass anesthesiologist when I caved and got the epidural, four hours of resting, an hour of puking, three hours of pushing, and lots and lots of stitches, my work was done. The reward was still spectacularly grand, even after the loss of my dignity and my modesty. I was holding a nine pound little miracle.

Camden Henry Jones was sunshine incarnate right from the start. We had a mild setback around three weeks thanks to colic, but $9 cans of formula saved the day (and broke our budget). His spit-up smelled even more revolting than average spit-up, but he was all smiles once again. He never wanted to be little. He smiled on command at three weeks, rolled over at five weeks, and carried on full cooing conversations by six weeks. He was walking like a champ by the time he was ten months old, and before he was a year old, he could rattle off sounds for a dozen different animals and speak in full sentences.

I was in love with my son. When I sent him home with my parents the night before my induction with Hudson, I cried bittersweet tears because I realized it would never again be just me and my little buddy at home. Of course, the trade-off for that loss has been an incredibly adventurous gain, and through the years, Camden has proven to be an engaging, energetic, enigma of a kid (okay, so I went a little crazy with the alliteration. Just roll with it).

Once Hudson arrived, and especially after Lawson arrived, Camden naturally settled into his role as big brother and oldest child. Being the oldest implies a certain right to bossiness and a tendency to push the little guys around. It was when these things started happening that I recognized I was dealing with a strong-willed child. Don't get me wrong--he is still sunshine, but now there is a very challenging side to his personality that I've had to learn to navigate along with the sunny sides. In short, he is like a carbon copy of me, only much more confident than I was at his age.

He gives everything he does 100% and seethes when he doesn't come out on top. He's very articulate but knows few boundaries in terms of conversational topics. The first time he met my friend Margie, he introduced himself and declared, "I'm home from school today because I have red poop. But we think it might have just been the spaghetti." His teachers tell me he is an angel at school. Like me, he is always eager to please and receive praise (his love language).

He is also extremely empathetic and sensitive, and things that upset him stay with him for inordinate lengths of time. He worries about the day our animals will go to heaven because he'll miss them so much, and he frets when he feels his brothers are leaving him out. He is an active participant in the world around him. He navigates life with a deep connection to and awareness of his feelings about subjects as trivial as how much he loves climbing trees or as heavy as how sad he felt when a peer was bullied at school.

On Monday, he turned seven years old. I can't believe it's been so long since I checked into the hospital with such a bold naivete of how much he would change my life. It's amazing to me what capacity parents have to love their children and how interesting it is to learn and understand each of their different personalities. I know Camden will bring me incredible joy in the coming years, and I also suspect I will fight many battles with my headstrong, independent, quirky little soul. My tenure as a mom began with him, and it has been a beautiful journey so far.

Tales of a Nutbag Working Mom

Three weeks ago I made a difficult choice to go back to work. I've worked sporadically as a freelance writer since we moved here, and while it's been a fantastic job, it's not always the most reliable income. In an effort to have the best of both worlds, I took a position as a part-time Pre-K teacher at the wonderful school Hudson and Lawson attended last year (the best of both worlds part being that it's part-time and allows me to drop off and pick up the boys and still have some time to spend with Scouty P).

Let me first say the job is a huge blessing on multiple levels (some more reliable income, great faculty and staff, awesome little dudes and dudettes). Let me then say the job is a huge adjustment. As a former middle school and high school teacher, I was a little awestruck by the preparation and pre-planning that goes into walking a group of fourteen four-year-olds through the construction of a paper bag frog puppet. I am in week two of my new gig, and every day is a bit of a learning experience.

For example, do not let four-year-olds use green tempura paint to turn a brown paper bag into a green paper bag, which will later serve as the body of a frog puppet. The result is a gloppy, torn mess that is too glued together to allow little hands to open the bag and animate their puppets. Epic fail for Mrs. Jones. Now, on a positive note, the little ones seem to find my dorky personality pretty funny. Score one for Mrs. Jones. Finally an audience who appreciates my childish sense of humor and willingness to humiliate myself in front of crowds.

The ultimate lesson I'm learning is that transitions are hard for preschoolers. Whether it's moving from a coloring center to a cutting and gluing center or giving up a favorite toy once I start belting out the cleanup song, four-year-olds don't like to transition. In many ways I sympathize. Sometimes grownups don't like to transition either, despite how necessary the change may be.

I hope my four kids aren't too greatly damaged psychologically by the frantic mess their mommy has been the past few weeks, and I hope the guilt I feel for being tired or frustrated with them eases once I really get in a groove and better master the art of balancing work and motherhood. They're going through big changes, too. As a first grader, Camden has homework every night. Hudson is adjusting to being at school for kindergarten every day for seven hours a day, and Lawson is preparing to start Pre-k at his big brother's school in exactly one week. Scout is going with the flow as the fourth child always finds a way to do.

They are the core of my heart, and I pray each day they'll eventually learn to shake their heads knowingly, roll their eyes, and say "Watch out, everyone. Mom is just being a little bit of nutbag right now." And then maybe give me their ultimate best behavior until the nutbag moments pass. Hey, a mom can dream, right?

Scouty P Strikes Again

My daughter is an interesting creature. Not only does she entertain us with the daily influx of knowledge she displays, but she is also a strange mixture of femininity and tomboy. She is on one hand a cuddle bug, and on the other hand prepared to straight up cut someone who tries to mess with her Pooh bear (security!). In fact, her second full sentence was spoken last week. It was "those are my Pooh bears."

Scout has what I like to call a multi-faceted personality. She twirls adorably to music, tries on clothes and shoes when she is supposed to be napping, and squeals out a girly "no" like it was a six syllable word. Then there is street punk Scout who bit a chunk out of Lawson's back for no apparent reason a few days ago, bitch slapped another baby girl at a recent photo shoot, and head butted me tonight in a toddler wrestling move gone wrong. Maybe I can start calling her Diamond Dallas Scout.

The tomboy side of her is probably inevitable considering we humans are in some part who we are because of the environment in which we are reared. (Anyone up for a spirited nature versus nurture debate will find a boring adversary in me as I put great stock in both sides of the coin.) While many of my friends' daughters comb my house looking for baby dolls and strollers when they visit, Scout loves to sit and play with monster trucks or the boys' toy race track. This week I found her holding two giant plastic insects and reenacting an epic bug battle. Not long ago Jason bought her little fairy dolls with brushes and combs, but they were quickly tossed aside for a GI doll.

God bless the boy who tries to date her one day. She is one tough, loud, cute, and spoiled little cookie. She is also the sun around which four planets in this house revolve. They're called Planet Daddy and Planet Big Brothers 1 through 3. I foresee some melodramatic scene playing out in fifteen years or so that involves a justifiably frustrated Scout standing on the front porch fuming and gesticulating wildly because the Jones men have driven away yet another school chum she would like to call her boyfriend. In the meantime I will try my hardest to instill in her boundless love and some sense of awareness that she is not, in fact, the center of the universe. Yeah, I know. Good luck with that.

Survival Rules for Moms of Boys

Rule #1

The grown-up bathroom should be a kid-free zone. Otherwise a mom like myself seeking just one fleeting moment of privacy to do her business won't be caught off-guard when she sits down in a puddle of little boy sprinkle and slides unexpectedly to the back of the seat. This toilet seat should be the one place in the house a mom can plant her booty without fear.

Rule #2

Be prepared to spend significant amounts of your budget on kids' shoes. God apparently instilled little men with some sort of mutated Sasquatch gene that leads their feet to grow ONE AND A HALF sizes in just six months' time.

Rule #3

Be prepared to take drastic measures to deal with the crippling mom guilt associated with letting your kids walk around in shoes that are one and a half sizes too small. These methods include but are not limited to: Prozac, counseling, vodka, long jags of crying to your girlfriends over coffee, and/or frivolous purchasing of random toys to make up for the injury to little toes.

Rule #4

Don't fight the inevitable "trickle down" effect of boy habits upon female siblings. My 18-month-old daughter is already walking around peeing on trees and crashing monster trucks.

Rule #5

Lower your standards when it comes to the levels of "appropriateness" on conversational topics about poop, pee, itchy "nuts, privates, or weiners," butt cracks, and burping and farting. Or in the alternative, prepare yourself to fight a really disgusting uphill battle.

Rule #6

Add "What the hell is that smell?" to your everyday mommy vernacular. Trust me, it will come in handy.

Rule #7

Expand your understanding of the laws of physics. A little boy's inertia, velocity, and gravitational potential energy defy the traditional framework which you have up to this point been taught.

Rule #8

Allow embarrassment to wash over you at every opportunity so that eventually, you are virtually immune to the effects of tantrums in department stores, your friends seeing your living room littered with tampons because the boys were sword fighting and/or singing into a teeny, tiny microphones, your son announcing you "pee out your booty" when he is in the bathroom stall with you, and his verbatim repetition to the neighbors of the questionable conversation you and your husband had when you thought little ears were otherwise engaged.

Rule #9

Have a frank (pun intended--you'll see), honest answer ready when your son panics and asks you why his private parts are "tall." In fact, before you reach that point, get over your reluctance to discuss the male anatomy altogether. He will discover it around three months of age and be fascinated with it the rest of his life, so you better get used to it and teach him to be comfortable with his own body. But not too comfortable, mind you. You don't want a seven-year-old who watches TV like Al Bundy or unabashedly "adjusts" himself in front of random strangers.

Rule #10

Give and receive love from your little boys freely and abundantly. The bond between mother and son is special and should be nurtured and appreciated. It should also grow and change as your son grows and changes. Remember, no one wants to have their kid referred to as a "titty baby" when he is in the horrific throes of puberty. And we women of course do not wish to be referred to as a "monster-in-law" one day when our sons are married because we had difficulty recognizing boundaries and cutting the apron strings when the time was right.

Bonus Rule

Clean a boys' bathroom at least every two days. The whole once a week thing won't cut it--unless you plan on sharing your findings with highly specialized scientists seeking to discover new species of bacteria.