I Was Expecting Snakes, Snails and Puppy Dog Tails: The Truth About Raising Boys

I thought I was prepared for raising boys.

I grew up playing sports, watching G.I. Joe and exploring the woods with my big brother who, to this day, considers me one of the guys. I worked in the male-dominated construction field for almost 20 years. I know boys like to hunt for worms, roughhouse and ignore bathroom etiquette. But nothing, and I mean NOTHING, could have prepared me for the reality of raising boys.

I consider myself pretty laid back when it comes to germs and dangerous{ish} feats. I’m the mom who watched her toddlers, on more than one occasion, nibble on a Milkbone and pondered whether or not it had enough nutritional value to count as breakfast. And I always applaud them when they jump from questionable heights and stick the landing.

My boys are healthy and wild, my battles carefully chosen. But more often than I’d like to admit, my boys have left me flinching or questioning their will to survive to adulthood.

I expected them to… like tools. I didn’t expect them to shun plastic ones in favor of the real thing. I can tell you there’s no good way to childproof a chainsaw. We learned to keep my husband’s toolboxes locked the day I caught my 2-year-old using a rusty crowbar to dig a hole in my daisies. We put a lock on the shed when we caught him swinging a pickaxe at the concrete patio. His favorite thing to play with last summer was a heavy-duty chain binder. He dragged it around like most kids drag a handmade blanky. Most boys like dangerous toys. It’s ingrained in their DNA.

I expected them to… dig for worms, lifting rocks or using a flashlight in the grass on a summer night like we used to. I didn’t expect my youngest to present a ball of bloodworms to a group of us at the school family picnic while we ate.  The parents were horrified and some gagging as he laid them next to us and proudly exclaimed that he found them in a puddle by the dumpster.

I expected them to… rough house. I didn’t expect how rough they’d be ON the house. My house looks like it’s two weeks into an extreme remodel when, in fact, it’s not. I’m surrounded by dented walls, broken furniture, and the bare bone necessities. Everything else is carefully hidden to avoid destruction. 

I fully anticipated… my kids’ lack of awareness when it comes to germs. I really never dreamed how deliberately they would TRY to ingest the plague. I’ve witnessed in a panic as my son, without an ounce of discretion, fondled every square inch of the inside of a public bathroom stall including under the rim of the busy toilet. Begging him not to touch his face while I carried him to the sink, I watched in disbelief as he cupped his little hands under the water and DRANK FROM THEM. I’ve seen them both eat wet ice cubes off the McDonald’s play place floor like it was a game. My kid found a half-full bottle of flavored water in the street that had just fallen from the garbage truck and chugged it. I couldn’t get to him fast enough praying that it wasn’t mixed with alcohol, a discarded tobacco spitter, or simply a beverage someone had contaminated while nursing the flu. We’ve white-knuckled it through a probable incubation period or two in our house.

Sometimes I shrug off the grosser things my kids do and figure their immune systems are stronger for it. Sometimes I hold off intervening and figure they’ll learn an important lesson from a little pain. I mean, so far we’ve been pretty lucky. Luckier than most I’d say.

If you’re a girl mom, you might be judging me just a little. But if you’re a boy mom, you know.

I’d love to hear about the time your kid made you question their will to survive. Not only because I’m pretty sure these are the kids mine will befriend later in life, uniting to freebase off the side of mountains, but also because it might make me feel a little bit better about my current situation.