Hurt Like A Mother

I stepped on a Playmobil pirate this morning and bruised the ball of my foot. Bluebeard left an actual discoloration -- right in the softest spot. Hurt like a sumbitch.

(I think it was the tiny goblet in his hand that got me. That or the claw-like grip, ready to receive an accessory or impale an appendage, depending on force applied.)

The experience reminded me of an ongoing list I'm compiling in my head: Things A Mom Will Learn to Love, Or at Least Tolerate, With Young Boys in the House.
(It's a distinct list but related to a few others I have going: Curses Uttered by Mothers of Boys, And The Reasons Why... and The Toys That Make Me A Real Mutha.)

No one prepped me for this all-boy life, I have to say. And maybe that's for the best. This way, the oddest or least relatable parts can come as a surprise. On the days the surprises bump into me like a serendipitous encounter with a casual friend, well, hooray! I'm charmed. And I leave the encounter knowing "the other" better. On the days the surprises slam into me like a 130-pound lap dog... well, at least I didn't spend any time worried about that fall to the ground, since I didn't know it was coming.

I'm so often just ... surprised... by them. By the little things they do, kind of, but more specifically by the way they do them. Not MY way. I wonder at the convoluted ways they carry out a simple request, set up project... how they build a homemade game with 1 ball, 3 sticks and 10 yards of Scotch tape. Sometimes, surprises come in labels they write for their stuff; in Post It notes they leave for me. I find myself surprised, too, by the humble objects they love and hoard; by the simple things that engage the pair of them for hours; at the really cool (I think) toys or books they want no part of.

I'm also surprised at the force of the manhood within them. Just little boys, they are. Small, vulnerable people... whom you might think have more in common with other small people of a different gender, than with adults of any stripe. But they're so determined to be boys, specifically. To follow Dad. To break from Mom.

Again, the surprises of boyhood can be very good. They can bring out my awe and whimsy. They can spark spontaneous laughter and silliness that falls like sudden summer rain. OR, they can leave me fumbling, reacting, frustrated and bruised at the end of the day.

No one really prepped me for this boy life. And sometimes I step in it. When I do, it hurts like a mother. But that's OK. Because sometimes, instead, I walk the whole way down the hall, bed to bed to bed, touching every red head in its sleep, ending at my own rest, and no landmines have found my feet. I make it through an entire day with only good surprises.

For that, I will endure any bruise, small or soul deep.