Wednesday, November 21, 2012

The Jungle I'm In: The Land of Boys

Of COURSE the first time I get to write in two and a half weeks is, the eve of Thanksgiving, when all of you aren't by a computer perhaps.

So i've been feeling...sick as a sick dog (I say this because, why do we assume that a dog is sick? This really bugs, so I've taken the liberties to point out that it's in fact, a sick dog I'm talking about). Anyway, I've been ill. And the one thing I want, I just can't have: sleep. Precious sleeeeep...even the word sounds...beautiful. To top it off, I'm having some weirdy dreams. Something about hundreds of tornadoes, and being stuck in a bomb shelter with a reprimanding Sergeant. Guess what I did? I laughed at him and he kicked me out of his classroom. Go figure. Even in my dreams I have Oppositional Defiance Disorder.

But I write because I can now and because well, I need to talk...about boys. Can I please, please double please, just tell you about boys because, I don't know what it's like to have girls...or to be one of those Angelic Moms that explain things so sweetly, and articulately, and appropriately regarding the...*duh-duhn-DUHHHH!* phallic stage. Yup, that's what this is about, the PHALLIC stage. Some of you might feel uncomfortable reading about this; maybe you have perfect little angel-boys...for NOW *maniacal laughter*...Or maybe it will scare you from wanting a boy. I hope not--I wouldn't trade these locos for anything. I just feel kind of crazy--yes, clinically insane most of the time with all of the testosterone in our home. Like, crazy enough to almost consider going to the store to buy every pink thing I possibly can, and inject myself with extra doses of oxytocin. Okay, are you ready? Because I'm not talking to you unless you are, and I  need to talk. Here goes: Angelic Moms (and Dads) might see the phallic stage as an opportunity. But no matter how I try, all I can say is, "OH MY GOSH! Put that thing AWAY! RIGHT NOW!" It's also difficult because, most of the time, the things they are doing or saying, actually are funny. What's the balance of not shaming them, but teaching this horde to be gentlemen? I want parents to want their daughters date boys like mine...not run away in fear. And we're talking SOMEDAY...Someday far, FAR away.

 So, take last night for example: Little Middle Joseph (he is the proverbial middle child) was screaming bloody murder in the bathtub because, "Michael's not letting my tee-kee (aka penis) float! He's DROWNING it!" My first thought, "Euew...Girls never try to "sink" their Ladies...Right??" and I didn't have time for a second thought because I needed to run in there to make sure no one was perpetrating. Or drowning. Even penises aren't allowed to drown on my watch. By the time I got in there (pitifully out of breath I might add because I was also holding the baby and carrying clothes), there was a new problem: Matthew was out of the bathtub, naked of course, wearing underwear on his head, dancing like a maniac. In fact, the object of the dance seemed to be to make his little wanger, wiggle. "W-What exactly are you guys doing?" I asked, (still pitifully) out of breath, trying not to sound demanding because that would make them get excited that I was upset (they're sadists, you see). "You're not mad, Mama?" the oldest asked curiously. I took a chance. "Well, when you are honest with me, I will not get as mad. When you lie, I feel very disappointed." A moment went by, and then all at once, by some unspoken Boy Phallic Gene Wonder, they all got up and Mike said, "Well we were daaaaancin'! And shaaaaakin' our bodies!" and they all naked-danced. BACKFIRE. Major fail.

Then, this past week the four-year-old drew a straight (ish) line down a piece of paper and said, "Mama--this is my tee-kee. Isn't it big?" It's true; the picture was of a big line. So I sighed and said, "Yes...that is big."But, then he ran right outside into our yard, where our sweet eighty-something neighbor was doing yardwork. "Michael! Michael! Look! Mommy said my tee-kee is biiig!" Before I could run out there (holding the baby and laundry again), it was too late. "Oh! Are you talking to me? What's a...a 'tee-kee'?" she asked sweetly. Pooor sap. "Oh--it's a penis!" the oldest said loudly and proudly. I cringed like a coward behind my curtains. (Of course the four-year-old didn't bring the paper with him which would've helped explain the situation; at least it wouldn't have sounded so damn dirty.) Needless to say, it is doubtful, highly doubtful I'll be asked over for tea with my little Penis Freaks. Oh and I'm not done! Are you hangin' in there? TALK TO ME--just nod a little and I'll feel the read-along in my writer's heart. Let's talk about...the weird things they ask me about "it." I hear things like, "Mama; why does it tickle when I squeeze it? I don't like that it swings around when I wear shorts...Why can't I look at it when I'm at school?" Or my personal fave, "...When I suck in my tummy like this, I push a button, and make my tee-kee tickle!" Most of their time-out time or consequences are actually because they take things way too far and get down-right inappropriate and everything is either about "poop" or "penises." Mike actually told me, "Mom, you're poop-tacular. Is that ina-poop-riate or what? HAHAHA!" Where does this even COME FROM, I ask you?! You might not believe it, but we run a very Christian home, and talk about boundaries all the time...Clearly, that's all sinkin' in real well. Now, don't get all, "She's blowin' this out of proportion, and getting all upset about something natural" on me, NO judging. I am well versed in rejoicing in the beauty of God's creating our bodies as good. But let's be real--they're not talking Theology of the Body, they just want to talk about their privates, and apparently, squeeze them. I think I could've handled this gracefully with one or even two boys going through this, but THREE?! Even the littlest one just discovered that it makes him laugh to squeeze himself when I'm changing him. I'm like, "NO! Et tu, Brute?!"

So friends, if I get together with you and am just a little extra needy, or extra desperate to be in your womanly presence, don't be alarmed or weirded out--it's that I need to drink in your estrogen, like an Amish girl chuggin' down a marg for the first time with both hands. Stat.

Anyone wanna take me out for a drink? Like now?