In My Spare Time, I Raise Boys

Scene 1: I get a call today from Teenage Boy, Now Driving.


  “Mom, I am filling the van up with gas but the gas just goes for a little bit and then stops.”  Mother asks questions, questions, and more questions.   Then says, “You need to go inside and ask.”
                      “No, I’m not going to do that.”


Ok, is it just me, or did my son just inadvertently tell me he will not go in and ask for directions, instructions, or help?


                                       Reminder, I’m raising a boy.


Scene 2:  In front of the mirror, getting ready for church, is Tween Boy, of 12.

            “I can’t get my hair to stay down” after spraying it with water for the millionth time.
            “My shirt collar won’t stay down.”  He changes his shirt 3 times.
            “I don’t have anything to wear that fits me.”
             Translation:  my brother was bigger than me, and none of his hand-me-downs fit me.  Mother, “Since when does he care about what he wears?”  Light-bulb – we are visiting a different church this morning where there are Girls his age.


                                          Reminder, I’m raising a boy.




Scene 3: Stepping over Star Wars figures, I open the window in Preteen boy’s room.

Mom, why do we have to sweep?  Can’t we wait a couple more weeks?
This child’s room reeks of Must, Dust, Turtles, and unswept corners.  After 

  • dusting the room (attempt #1),
  • washing the bedding (attempt #2)
  • washing windows, screens, and baseboard with Pinesol (attempt # 3)
  • I resort to good old-fashioned sweeping under everything in the room, which, of course, causes stress on behalf of the child.



Mom, this battle has been going on for two weeks now.  Do I have to move it?”
 I look over the “battle” and see an intricately made battlefield spawning a bookcase, marble tower, and three other “locations.” This strategy took some hard work, creativity, and time.


                                            Reminder, I’m raising a boy.


Ok, I tell him, we will sweep under and around everything else except the “battle.”  Two days later the room still smells musty, dusty, and turtlie.  Response?


By an Airwick, close the door, and remind myself,
                                                                                       I’m raising boys. 

                                                                   
                                               Enough Said.

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