It’s like a club, really. An exciting, adventurous, unpredictable, challenging, terrifying, sometimes awful and almost always disgusting club. Call it the MoB…Moms of Boys…and it only takes one to make you a member. (God bless those with more than one.) Similar to the obvious tell tale sleep deprived appearance that moms of a newborn share, the face of the MoB is just as unmistakable. Fear. It’s called fear.
If ever there were call for a support group, this is it. Come on ladies, we need each other. Because you know you’re a member of the MoB club when…
You keep a set of rubber fishing waders and a pair of goggles beside the changing table.
Anything can double as a weapon. Any. Thing.
You buy out all the water guns at Dollar General to try to dissuade him from using his little man part to shoot his sister with in the bathtub.
You have Poison Control on speed dial.
You discover your daughter’s head mysteriously rubber cemented to the wall. (I found her before she completely dried, okay?)
You have to remind him to sit down in the water all casual like and not be so obvious about peeing in the ocean. (Oh, don’t act like you don’t pee in the ocean.)
You recount to your husband what Sponge Bob did that day as if he’s part of the family. That ornery sea creature.
They know you by name in the ER.
Fart becomes the new 4-letter f-word.
You’re the only one wearing a shirt at the dinner table.
You not only expect to see someone peeing outside, but eventually it’s you. If you can’t beat em, join em.
You agree that sometimes naked is an acceptable wardrobe of choice.
Your bathroom walls resemble an abstract art exhibit of dried pee drips. We call this room, ‘Didn’t hold his peace.’ (Or piece. Or pee-ce. Hey, as long as your Mother-In-Law buys it, who cares.)
You become a Jedi Master of inappropriate humor.
You equate the pain of stepping on a Lego with hard core Navy Seal training and feel like a total badass when you survive it twice in one day.
You live in self-defense mode for those inevitable moments he’s lurking in wait to jump out from under something and make you crap your pants. And that’s his goal.
Your husband is on the phone with Direct TV frantically explaining that your 8 year old thought he stumbled onto the perfect combination of Play Station and Game Boy … Behold, Playboy.
You continually fall into the toilet in the middle of the night. No, wait. That’s how you know you’re married.
You stop asking what that smell is. You no longer care and you’d honestly rather not know.
Balls are referenced on a daily basis. Basketballs, footballs, baseballs, juggling balls, body part balls. Doesn’t matter. You will hear and/or say the word balls every. single. day. And then they’ll giggle.
You find yourself searching Amazon in hunt of a unicycle because that’s the only thing in the world he wants for Christmas. Besides those super dangerous spring loaded stilts. Oh and a zip line that runs from the roof of the barn to his bedroom window pretty please and thank you.
His favorite sports become your favorite sports, you truly believe he’s the most talented one on any given team and frequently explain to him that he’s sitting the bench because the other boys need all the extra practice they can get…those poor ungifted souls.
You ban anything involving fire. Starting fire. Setting anything on fire. Juggling fire. Swallowing fire. Ya know, the basics.
You can’t stay mad at him. Ever. Like, seriously. It’s not possible.
You’ll gladly drop anything (or anyone) if he needs you to.
One day you find yourself 13,000 feet in the air with a guy strapped to your back getting ready to catapult you out of an airplane because where your boy goes, you go.
You can feel his stare from across any amount of space and you immediately turn and meet his gaze with the reassuring smile he needs in that moment.
You realize that the amount of times your heart can be stolen and melted in one lifetime are too numerous to count.
You feel your heart simultaneously rejoice and break into a thousand pieces the day he marries the love of his life…
…You feel it miraculously mend the day you meet their newborn son.
I’d like to dedicate this post to my amazing daughter-in-law, who loves her son just as fiercely as I love mine. Welcome to the MoB, Barbara. We’re a force to be reckoned with. And they’re worth every bit of it. <3