You might be a boy mom if your bathroom smells like a subway elevator in July.
On subway elevators in July:
I once took four boys through the subway systems of Boston after a grueling day of doctor’s appointments for Jack. We finished a long day of hospital doings then walked several blocks up Longwood Avenue. The subway doors had a habit of closing as I wrestled a stroller with an angry toddler up and into the train while the terrified eyes of my other children watched from the train. We travelled through downtown, toward the Hatchshell threatre to watch an outdoor symphony. I love music. I adore the arts. But this was not a trip meant for cultural enrichment. We simply needed to get to the performance in order to get a ride home from The Bearded Wonder, who was filming the event and who, at the time, had our only vehicle. The boys were loud, wriggly and rambunctious. Angry glares forced us away from the performance and onto a five hour long walk in the stifling July humidity. Fast-forward to midnight, the concert is over and we need to again take the subway to the car. This is when I realized that subway elevators double as a urinal for the homeless. The red metal doors closed around me and my little family. The acrid fumes of ammonia singed my nostril hairs. The elevator hesitated as if to ensure that I was fully aware of the depravity of the human condition, and how much it endured in its meager existence. Panic. “Boys,” my voice is calm but tipped with fear, “Don’t. Touch. Anything.” Clang. Click, click, click. The blessed box descends and we are on our way to the train.
You might be a boy mom if there is a cloud of methane which permanently rests above your home and which, may or may not, be contributing to a hole in the ozone layer.
The flatulence of four boys and one man permeate my life.
Word of the day:
- the accumulation of gas in the alimentary canal.”foods that may cause flatulence”synonyms:intestinal gas, wind, gas
It will eventually turn my freshly painted walls from a brilliant white to a faded brown. It is only a matter of scientific deduction which leads me to assume that I am, in fact, inhaling poop particles all day and every day of my life. It withers my youth and robs my beauty. I’m saturated in the air of boy farts.
You might be a boy mom if your boys have, at some time, held your face in their sticky hands, declared their undying devotion and vowed to marry you some day.
All of my four boys have done this. They have all been adamant that I am the only woman in all of the world whom they will consider marrying. I told them they have to contend with The Bearded Wonder first.
You might be a boy mom and your house may be tottering on the brink of destruction, but if you are a boy mom, then know this:
“Many women have done excellently, but you surpass them all.”