Silver Lining

I can't quite remember anymore the exact day or time, but I know I was driving. I had stopped at a light not far from my house after a long day at work. The sunshine beat down, and I leaned my head back. I flipped open the sunshade, and as I glanced up, it was unmistakable. Gleaming. Shining. A glint of gray. I think I literally gasped out loud. The light turned green and as I crossed the busy intersection I waited for the next stoplight around the bend in the road, knowing I could scour the mirror yet again to make sure there was only one gray hair among the light brownish streaks.

I'm quite sorry to say...there wasn't just one.

So it begins. I have gray hair.

I suppose I forget sometimes how the stress has compounded these past few years. At work. In my marriage. At home. With my boys. With my friends. With life.

My response to stress is strange. I tend to embrace it and channel it into positive productivity. (Shocking, right?). The more stressed I get at work, the more efficient I become. The more stressed I am at home, the more I tackle. I become less emotional, more direct, and nearly robotic in the way I can chop away at the endless list 'to do' when it really counts.

Neverthless, the stress remains, and while I can internalize it and smile through the madness, my locks deceive me. My boys have aged me.

I grew up with one sister in a family where all three women in the house "cycled' simultaneously (yes, you can take pity on my dad). We shopped for bras, learned to dance, and routinely rented every chick flick on earth (Wild Hearts Can't Be Broken, anyone?). A home of girls.

Eleven years ago this month, I married my amazing beau Ben and embraced the journey ahead. Makeup and heels paired with pee on the toilet seat and acid wash jeans (oh yes, I made him get rid of those quickly). A woman and a man. Even Steven.

I am sadly outnumbered these days.

Boys are nuts. Can we just be honest?  I spend most of my time with my boys preventing injuries, playing referee and trying to convince them not to destroy everything I own. I scream in terror, rush to the rescue and walk into a disaster pretty much 10 times a day. It is a heart-stopping, stressful roller coaster of mommy-hood, this parenting boys stuff.

From my end, it seems like adding another boy to the first doesn't make it just twice as crazy. Oh no. There is an exponential factor of boy-ness when there are two or three. Don't believe me?

My life with boys, a.k.a. the top ten reasons why I now sport some gray hair(s):

(Okay, time out. Before you read this below list, please remind yourself that our house is kid-safe and we are good parents. Really, we are. I promise...okay...read on.)

1. Food fights across the table. Or the car. Or the kitchen. Hopefully not on my nice couch. Always somehow ending up on the carpet because I step on the hard dried pieces the next day. Grrr.
2. Cleaning poop out of a full bathtub. Both twins splashing happily. The non-offender mad at the poop-er for causing bathtime to abruptly end. And then holding two contaminated wriggling naked toddlers while trying to remove all bath toys (to be thoroughly cleaned separately) and disinfect the bathtub before another round of "quick get clean baths" to rinse poopy water off the two year olds. And then battling little boy bath fear every day after because someone might poop again. Gross. I hate poop in the bathtub. Just saying...
3. Rotisserie chicken fresh from Sam's. Boys are angels, begging like birds beside the kitchen island. Hand them bits of meat as they munch happily. Three minutes of bliss. Then hysterical shrieking (me) chasing after the toddlers who have managed to run from the kitchen into their bedroom and hide behind some flowing window treatments, greasy chicken fingers staining their brick red curtains. Gotta strap 'em in their booster seats next time. 
4. Occupied brothers (all three) playing in the living room together. It's the kind of afternoon you wish for, with the kids getting along and the home happy, mommy and daddy managing laundry and mowing and dishes and bills. Too much laughing. It's a spinning contest. Who can get the dizziest? Um that would be Toby, which I realize as he careens out of control and falls head first into the corner of the wall. Bruise. Crying. Ice pack (which is worse than the bruise so more crying). Sigh.
5. Tracking lizards under the pile of pallets out back. Looking for snakes in the weeds. Ignoring Sam when he insisted that Aunt Sharon had a sleeping mouse on the floor...then the adults finding said dead mouse and realizing that he touched it. Endless grubby fingers pointed my way accompanied by the phrase: "Booger, Mommy." Bugs and guts and gross-ness.  Lots and lots and lots of hand scrubbing. Seriously.
6. The bathroom. That's all I really need to say. I know it only gets worse. I truly can't imagine the horror of three teenage boys in one bathroom. It already stinks. All the time. No matter how much I clean it. Uncontrollable boy pee is awful. We cheer the little ones along in potty training and then cringe when it sprays on the wall, the cabinet, the shower curtain. Then older brother sleepwalks. And doesn't have good aim in the dark. Ugh. Just, ugh. 
7. Reckless Glee. Launching off papa face-first onto the ground. Running full steam into the baby gate to see how it shuts. Taking out the air vent to stick toys (or feet and hands) into it. Pushing their faces nearly through the second story kitchen window screen (don't worry we don't keep it open anymore). Standing on every toy to balance up high. Jumping. Leaping. Climbing. Little daredevils prodded on by big brother. Bumps and bruises. Busted lips and bloody noses. We live in a constant state of avoiding (major) injuries and being thankful for the ones that "just" have a goose egg. 
8. Dirty clothes. Stinky sweaty socks hidden in toy baskets I don't find for days.  Or my new discovery: after doing enough laundry for what should be five days of clothes, I'm only finding two pairs of underwear and socks (not 5 like there should be). What does that mean, my friends? Someone isn't freshening up every day. Gross. I know. Working on it!
9. Running toward the street. Running away in the parking lot. Running down the hall at church, in the stores, everywhere. In opposite directions. Too fast.  Frazzled mommy. Yay!
10. And finally, the best for last. The perfect picture of what it means to be a mom of boys: Twins happily playing in living room. Run downstairs for one minute. One. Back upstairs and twins have vanished. Step into the living room and see the door to the garage wide open. Garage door wide open. I scream. In my pj's and not fit for the neighbors, but my kids have escaped so I have no choice. My heart stopping, I race into the front yard in just enough time to notice the twins hand-in-hand rounding the corner of the house to find daddy who was mowing.  Heart attack. Shaky from fear that they were in the road or down the street or worse. I hug them tight. And put on more childproof door handles.

All this. In the last two weeks. TWO WEEKS, people!  

Virtually every pregnant woman I know right now is having a boy. And I can't help but smile at the life they have ahead of them! 

Boys can be wild and rough. They can be reckless and destructive.

But for mommas of those little guys, from the moment we see their faces or hold their precious little hands, they've stolen our heart. To love a little boy is like no other. Through the wrangling and the catching and the stopping and the monitoring, they smile and laugh constantly. Charming, boyish grins. Strong and fearless.

What a privilege to raise these little ones so full of life, already boys turning into men, the days ticking by too quickly.

And so we hold them close, kiss their boo-boo's and cuddle them when they let us.

Raising boys is tough, but indescribably fun.  So I say, embrace the madness and mayhem.

And consider buying stock in Band-Aid.