Boy O Boy

I am the only female in my house. Not only do Steve and I have two boys, but all of our pets are male as well. This may not mean a lot to you, but it does to me. There are some episodes of Home Improvement that I watch in absolute horror.

The other day Nick woke up from him nap early, and I took him into my bed, thinking he might settle down again, but if he didn't at least Nate would still get more rest. Nick and I cuddled with our heads on the pillows, doing the nuzzly, huggy things that mothers and their toddlers do. And then he burped. Not your little burp, but a big, boy belch. The kind that, in seventh grade, would have half the class in giggles and the girls srunching up their faces in horror. The only difference was, my son isn't in seventh grade, he's two and a half, and oh did I forget to mention the fact that my face was about two and a half inches from his?

I knew he was a boy. I knew it. But in that moment I suddenly saw hampers full of sweaty, grass stained boy clothes, crumpled towels on the floor, sinks full of dishes crusted with cheese, empty potato chip wrappers in the cushions... basically what Steve's house looked like before I moved in with him. Only worse because there will be THREE OF THEM! (counting Steve.)

I know being a boy does not mean being a slob. I know men who are very tidy. I have a cousin who mops the floor not every day, but after EVERY MEAL. And I know that being female does not mean you are neat. Remember I have sisters. (WHO I LOVE VERY MUCH, NEAT OR MESSY!) I will keep trying to raise tidy boys with good manners who use forks and do not burp at the table. But it doesn't stop the dreams. Oh no, the nightmares will keep coming.