Boy, Oh Boy!

There is a special place in heaven for the mother of sons and the reward is multiplied ten fold for each one. I have three. I figure my entrance through the pearly gates is insured.

Having three sons is like living in a men’s locker room. There are clothes everywhere and they all seem to smell. Even the clean ones. Young males have no sense of propriety. They think nothing of throwing their underwear hither and yon with no concern with where it lands whether discreetly behind a piece of furniture or precariously on a lamp shade. And socks. Socks are everywhere except the hamper. I got so exasperated one evening after actually completing all the laundry (a rare occurrence, believe me) only to have my sons complain there were no socks. I said, “you are going on a sock search!” and sent them on their way. This activity showed me the extent of their ingenuity. They were stuffed under cushions, under and behind furniture. They were shoved down to the bottom of their beds between the sheets. One of my boys had a pair hidden in the piano bench.

Of course, I have discovered that there are multiple uses for socks as well. They can be used as tissue (used or not). They can be little mini carry all bags. They make handy mittens when there are none to be found (they tend to go the way of socks).

And let’s not under estimate the entertainment value of socks. They are an easy way to torment various siblings. (Don’t you just love the smell of dirty socks in the morning?) They are wonderful and imaginative puppets. Of course, as the boys mature (ha ha!), the fun becomes more risque. Upon mounting the stairs one especially exhausting evening, I was accosted by both an early and prepubescent male. They were dancing at the top with socks hanging from their respective privates bobbing up and down with their movement like those silly velveteen dogs you see in rear windows. Now one would think that I would have been irate over such outrageous behavior. Having reached my saturation point, I was immune. I just matter of factly snatched off the socks and put them in the wash. This was greeted with gales of laughter and them clutching themselves with a modicum of modesty as though using socks had supplied them with sufficient cover.

Wouldn’t you think that three boys would be enough? Absolutely, I say. However, one must not forget that with each son, come friends. Male friends. Each with their own set of annoying habits. They belch and fart at various intervals as they empty your refrigerator and cabinets. Usually, they have been playing some type of strenuous game that produces sweat. You contemplate lighting fragrant candles to help mask the odor but there is always the concern that the air will spontaneously combust so you decide to go outside for some fresh air. As you sit on the steps taking great gulps of oxygen, you do a double take at the sides of your house because you are sure that there is hair growing out of the vinyl siding from all the testosterone. You can hear them communing in front of video games, your articulate boys reduced to monosyllables. When you finally clear the house of the cloud of locusts that has descended, it seems as though their knuckles are dragging on the ground as they lumber down the driveway.

I could go on and on with my dissertation of Ode to Boys like a stanza on toilets with teeth and the ever present athletic supporter. But I’m sure you’ve heard enough to get the picture. So to mothers of sons everywhere, I say, go forth with the knowledge that the angels and archangels have prepared for you a spotless, sockless place in paradise. See you there!