“Raising boys — that’s an extreme sport!” Such was the sentiment that found its way to my desk on the recent Mother’s Day weekend. On the front was a photo of three boys heaped in a pile on four small wheels, ready to roar down a hill with reckless abandon.
“If this doesn’t kill us, our mothers will.” That’s what it said. As the mother of boys who’d done that very thing, I said a quiet, “Amen,” which I covered discreetly with a cough.
On the inside in meticulous cursive was written, “Saw this card and thought it perfect as well. Thanks for always making me laugh.” It was signed by Kid Kaboom.
An extreme sport, raising boys? And wasn’t that the truth. It was good (it was) that a woman entered motherhood blissfully unaware of all that awaited.
The journey to maternity for many was a path all flower strewn, drenched in rainbows and sunbeams. Birds sang and butterflies flitted as the first, small flutters were felt in the womb. Then flutters turned to kicks, thumps and bumps, and one’s bladder became a trampoline. The waistline disappeared. The ankles did, too, and at long, long last, the little doober arrived.
In one “yip and a woof,” as a canine would say, life changed. Your time was not your own. Your money was certainly not your own, and your heart would never again be your own. Forever after, it would go walking about outside your body in the shape of a kid carrying your last name. Or, in my case, four boys sporting blue eyes, cowlicks and rooster tails.
It’s good, I’ve decided, that they arrive as helpless, gurgling babes. For that quick, one falls in love, and then they become large, bumbling teenagers with smelly socks and “issues,” it’s too late. You’re still hooked.