Thursday, August 1, 2013

Pressing Questions

About five words into typing this post, a shriek of "Owwwiieeee!" came piercing through the air.  I sighed, rolled my eyes a bit, and hit the Backspace button until every word was erased.  It's not like it was the first time I had heard screaming today, but the tone had just enough urgency in it that I knew there was some actual Mommy business required this time rather than the typical, "Stop sitting on your brother's head!" or "No, you cannot use the DVDs as ninja stars!"

Sure enough, the little one had gotten his fingers pinched in the closet door by his big brother who knows he's not supposed to be playing in the closet in the first place.  A few well-placed kisses and cuddles, and I got him down for a nap and shooed the Bigs outside to try to torment one another in the fresh air.

My Diet Dr. Pepper now in hand and my attention only slightly diverted by the somewhat suspect game of "Star Wars Hide & Seek" taking place in the back yard, I have a few questions for my veteran parents.  You see, I'm starting to feel like the days are blurring together into a never-ending string of screaming, punching, pee-smelling, toy throwing chaos.  The quiet moments of snuggles, prayers and hugs make it so incredibly worth it, but sometimes it can be hard to keep my head when I'm in the trenches.

I need to be reassured that there is a day coming when I won't have to find poop in mysterious places.

Will the never ending screaming and yelling one day be replaced by a thick, permeating silence?

Is there going to come a time when I miss the puddles of applesauce, the half-chewed bites of broccoli, and the slobbered Goldfish I find all over the floor? 

Will dinnertime always be an epic battle of wills?

When conflicts arise and tempers flair, will they always return to a safe place where they know they are loved fiercely by their parents and their God?

Will a morning ever dawn when I don't feel like an extra from The Walking Dead?

How do I get my bathroom to stop smelling like pee? (I mean, I can't exactly make them pee outside in January.  Or....can I?)

Should I start saving up now for the extensive therapy I'm likely to need from the emotional trauma of having sons who seem to be born with a death wish?  (Or is this just typical of sons across the board?)

At what point does this whole "boys are tougher when they are young, but get easier" thing start really happening because I am soooooo ready.

Are arranged marriages really THAT bad of an idea?  (I'm looking at you, Del Pontes.)

What are the odds that my "strong-willed" child will one day become a serial killer?  I'm just trying to cover my bases here so it's not quite so traumatizing when I have to sit down for the interview with Dateline.  At this point, I'm just going to operate on the assumption that as long as we don't cross over from punching and hitting his brothers to dissecting small animals that I can rest easy.  If I find a decapitated squirrel on my porch, I'm calling dibs on Natalie Portman playing me in the Lifetime made for TV special.  Or maybe Amy Adams.  Or Emma Stone.  I'll get back to you on this one.

What is it with boys and farts?  I honestly don't understand why they think they are so fascinating.

Should I just accept it right now that they will never EVER stop being so obsessed with playing with their private bits? 

Raising sons is no joke, y'all.

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