I have a surprising – to me, anyway – number of male readers. I LOVE that you are here, by the way, so please hang out. You add a certain Je Ne Sais Quoi to the vibe. (Even more so if you would, ahem, leave comments.)
Upon learning from a male that he reads this blog, one thing that inevitably comes up is his opinion about my ‘husband/male bashing’ posts. I prefer to think of them as ‘husband/male gentle ribbing’ posts, but that’s just me.
In all honesty, I try to be lighthearted when writing about anything ‘male.’ I don’t want to be some sort of vicious shrew and I definitely don’t want this to be a space where I air our dirtiest laundry or vent about the darkest moments of our marriage. That’s why girls have diaries. Or internet friends, if they’re over the age of 12.
And I don’t want it to be a place where males of any sort feel uncomfortable putting their feet up and staying awhile. (see above) I promise, I like the boys!
All of that being said, let’s dig in, shall we?!
Ohhh, you thought this was going to be some sort of complete mea culpa to the boys of the world?
Nah. That’s no fun.
Let me point out that in the obnoxious vein of, “Oh, I have a friend who has no legs, so my wheelchair jokes are totally not offensive!” I remind you that I LIVE with three boys.
All day, every day, yo. I think I have a right to sometimes use their maleness as blog fodder.
Here are my top 3 complaints tendencies that tickle my funny bone about living with all males:
1. Clean Up, Clean Up, Everybody Everywhere! Clean Up, Clean Up, Let’s Pitch in and…Fold Underwear????
This one truly does make me laugh – unless I am pregnant, during which ten months I pretty much never laugh. This male characteristic mostly shines right before some sort of event being held at our home. I am usually scrambling to shove all random objects into hidden locations, clean the floors and get the food ready. Sometimes I ask for help. But only if I’m in a good mood, because the help usually looks like this. Yes, my husband always finds the most amazingly creative projects right before a dinner party or ways to help pick up the house when I ask for help. I mean amazing in it’s truest and most flattering form.
Well, I have noticed that Carlitos has already started showing signs of this trait. The other day we had six people coming over for a ‘pretzel making play date.’ (Two moms, four kids) I asked Carlitos to help me pick up his room before all of this friends got there. I thought he might put the blocks back in the block box, put the balls in the ball basket or maybe even put some books back in the bookshelves.
When I walked back in he was using a giant stack of baby wipes to wipe down each individual HotWheels car. Have you ever been to the home of a 4-year-old boy? They each seem to have no less than 400 HotWheels, my son included. Okay, so it made me laugh, but seriously?! The floor of their room was still inundated with a variety of toys, stuffed animals and books. Clearly boy brains and girl brains process the words ‘clean up’ very, very differently.
But man were those cars shiny!
I’m not saying I don’t pee. Trust me, I do. Probably a good 67% more often than all of the male counterparts in my household. And probably much to their chagrin. “Mommy! How are you in there again?!?! You just peed during Fresh Beats Band 10 minutes ago!”
You know where it doesn’t belong? On the floor. Especially when the bathroom is so small that the only way to clean the pee on the floor around the toilet is with a Clorox wipe while on my hands and knees. Yeah, like face pressed up against the toilet-style. Where I get a close-up whiff of the lines of sticky urine racing each other down the outside of the bowl, too. And then stick my hand in the pee that has taken up residence on our scale.
How much pee can one woman take?!? (Don’t answer that. Gross.)
But seriously, I had NO IDEA what a big role urine would play in my life as a mom. My pee. Their pee. Cleaning pee. Leaking pee. Holding pee. Laughing pee. Changing pee sheets. Overflowing pee diapers. (Mine and theirs.)
So, frequently scrubbing sticky pee from all surfaces near our toilet is my final straw.
The new mantra I have been making them chant: Focus! Aim! Flush! Wash!
Love languages. They’re real. And I have discussed how different male love languages can be…and how I LOVE watching them partake in their boy-style love fests. Know what I don’t love, though? Getting a heel to the jugular. At 5:45 am. Or ever, really, if we’re being honest. Which *we* clearly are. (Sorry – I got all ‘obnoxious nurse’ on you there for a second. ‘Are we ready for our shot?’ Sure! Roll your sleeve up, nursey nurse!) But I digress, as usual.
I really do love that they have this male bonding in which I play no role. Well, unless you count tourettes-like screaming of “Tuck your chin! Watch his neck! Baby, his back! Please don’t break their necks! Your head! Your face! Window! Corner! Please, for the love of God, TUCK YOUR CHIN!”
I guess that is kind of a role…in very general terms anyway.
Somehow, in addition to weekends and evenings, this activity has become a normal morning activity. Again, ‘morning’ in our house is around 5:45 am. I should mention it takes place on our bed. That’s really the kicker. (Puns always intentional) Even with it’s heart attack inducing abilities, I still prefer to be a spectator for this male behavior. And yet, I have moved my way into the inner circle, so to speak. And the bruises on my arms and legs because of this are going to have the neighbors talking soon enough.
As the only one in this household who doesn’t double over and wince/scream like a male soccer player with an ‘injury’ on the field any time I get kicked in my private parts by mistake, I can’t believe I have to be the one to say this: NO MORE wrestling in our bed. I’m way over it. And based on the number of ‘doubled over wincing/screaming’ episodes we have had of late, the boys should all be way over it, too.
But they totally aren’t. Sigh.
See? That wasn’t so bad! Only three ‘humorous tales of woe’ regarding Life as the Only XX in a Household Full of XYs.
Okay, so, I could definitely keep going if you loosened my lips with bourbon or twisted my arm. But there is that whole ‘vicious shrew’ persona I’m trying to avoid. And all those male readers I want to keep. Oh, and the boys in my home I don’t want to piss off.
Plus, I can’t lie, never needing to worry that someone is pilfering my rose petal lotions or stealing my US Weekly magazines is pretty awesome.