My Life With Boys

I recently bought a pink t-shirt. That may not seem like a big deal, but you see, I have never worn pink. It isn’t supposed to look good on a redhead. For some reason, though, I really wanted something pink. I think I wanted to remind myself that I am a girl. Living in a house full of males has diminished my girly-ness.

My friends that are mothers of all boy families know what I am talking about. (And there are an abundance of you: Savannah, Tracey, Katey, Karen, Sandi, and Christine, to name a few.) These women know that it takes a different kind of womanhood to exist in an all-boy household.

For one thing, a mother of all boys had better know something about sports, if she doesn’t want to be left out. I have spent my share of afternoons throwing footballs and catching baseballs. It has been to my favor that my cousins, (all the kids my age were males on my Dad’s side of the family) taught me how to throw a spiral and how to close the glove on that ball. I have been amazed at how much Taylor (the silent one) will talk if I am on the receiving end of his passes.

Another thing that I have noticed is that our language is different. I find it effective to use sound effects when communicating with my boys. Add a few “Pow!”, “Brrrrr!”, “Splat!” or “”Zing!” to my discussion and I have all ears. One day I realized our family had engaged in a conversation that consisted of very few intelligible words, and the funny thing was we all understood each other.

Sometimes I have wondered what it must be like to have tiny nails to paint or little tresses to braid; to have someone to pass on my sewing knowledge to; someone to share the small, cute, quiet things in life with. I guess I will wait for daughter-in-laws and granddaughters for those things. For now I will enjoy throwing the pig-skin with my boys . . . while I wear my pink t-shirt.