As many of you know, I live in a wee little house full of not-so-wee-nor-little boys. Even Butterlump, who definitely IS still wee (thank goodness) is huge for his age.
I am the lone aisle of estrogen in a sea of testosterone.
While I did hope for a girl with each pregnancy and felt a whole lot of sorrow and loss when I realized that it probably wasn’t in the cards for me since I seem to be married to the world’s only single chromosome male, I love being the mother of boys.
All mothers should have the sheer joy of having their heart break into a thousand pieces from the sheer adorable of being presented with a bouquet of dandelions in a grubby little boy hand and and be told, “Mama…I marry you?”
Seriously…you do not get better than that.
There are a lot of things that I knew I would be concerned about and had an action plan for with my boys. Like instilling in them the sheer importance of the sibling relationship. My two older boys are half brothers, but they absolutely do not think of each other that way. They are worst enemies but also best friends and they absolutely have each other’s backs.
However, there were many things about raising boys that I just wasn’t prepared for.
Like Cub Scouts. (It really just is not my thing.)
Or the fascination with all things Manga and Anime.
Or the fact that at some point my boys would probably start sneaking their sheets into the laundry. (NO. WE ARE NOT GOING THERE. BECAUSE MY BRAIN MIGHT EXPLODE. FOR REALS.)
Or the fact that BOYS ARE SMELLY.
And let me branch out into that one as it is my current frustration.
Because OH MY FREAKING FRACK DOES IT SUCKASUCKASUCKASUCK.
While we are trying like the Dickens to be out of our small house as soon as possible (It’s on the market, but y’all know what shape THAT is in right now.) I am still stuck sharing one bathroom with one teenage boy, one tween boy, a potty-training-toddler boy and one very tall and big husband. Though he is definitely a man and NOT a boy. Still, that is one girl sharing a small bathroom with FOUR BOYS.
(I know. You all want to be me.)
And as my boys get older, despite the regular “use good hygiene, dude” and use of deodorant, areas of my house smell more and more like a freaking locker room.
I think I have probably purchased my weight in Clorox and Fabreeze lately.
However…I had ALMOST come to terms with this when I was thrown a curve ball when teenage boy came home with a gift from his father.
ENTER THE LIBERALLY APPLIED TEENAGE BOY COLOGNE PHASE.
I guess I knew that at some point cologne would enter the picture with my boys.
I mean, I was a young girl once. I also had impaired teenage judgement that caused me to burn my face off nightly by slathering my skin with Noxzema followed by a Sea Breeze chaser and pour an entire bottle of SunIn on my head in junior high. (Hey, it was the 80′s. I also thought stirrup pants and layered legwarmers were flattering.)
I was also around young boys.
I know the whole ‘boy cologne’ thing. (You are talking to a girl that used to have sleepovers with her best friend and one of our favorite passtimes was spraying a pillow with our boyfriend’s cologne and slow dancing with it in the dark to emo 80′s prom tunes.)
(Yeah. I know.)
Dork as I was, I loooved it. (AND WE ARE TALKING OLD SPICE HERE, PEOPLE. I am not trying to shield myself from the sins of my youth.) I imagine as we age, our smell receptors are much like our taste buds in the fact that we outgrow the things we thought were groovy when we were kids. Like the fact that I no longer think that the gates of heaven are made of Count Chocula cereal.
So, I have tried to be patient, but seriously, y’all–I may die of asphyxiation. My main problem is that I have a small house and one small bathroom and since James has the earliest call of the morning and gets it first, I would prefer not to have to have it smell like an Axe Cologne Bomb assaulted it every morning while I’m getting ready for my day, ya know? It permeates everything. It’s like the cockroach of the cologne world…YOU CANNOT GET RID OF IT. IT WILL BE THERE AFTER NUCLEAR HOLOCAUST WITH TWINKIES AND CHER.
Nothing seems to convince him that LESS IS MORE.
I was beginning to think that I was just doomed until maturity advanced when I had a ray of hope.
Enter one very curious and destructive-to-all-things-tornado known as “Butterlump”.
He emptied his brother’s entire bottle.
*hack, hack, cough, cough*
After I opened every window in the house and brought in fans and fled the house in escape from the face-melting fumes, I started to look at the positives of the situation.
He didn’t have anymore cologne.
And my mind went from there.
And OOPS! I am so sorry! I totally forgot to pick up some more while I was at the store, son! I’ll…uh…put it on the list for the…um…future!!!!
And then buy him more expensive and less odorific cologne for Christmas.
And for a blissful 3-days I actually thought that my master plan would be successful.
Then James came back from celebrating his birthday with his father.
He was carrying a brand new black duffle bag.
“HEY, MOM! LOOK WHAT DAD GOT ME FOR MY BIRTHDAY! I CALL IT MY “AXE BAG”. A WHOLE BAG FULL OF COLOGNE AND COLOGNE FILLED PRODUCTS SO THAT I WON’T RUN OUT FOR YEARS!”
I guess I can always hope that the newness of it and his excuberence dies down.
And if not…I always have his driver’s licence to use as leverage.
If you need me, I’ll be the one over in the corner with the noseplug contemplating my next post titled “When THE Hell Did I Turn Into The Fuddy Duddy Mom That Threatens Driving Privileges To Get Her Way?!”