Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. Beautiful boy.

Back in the long, drawn-out fall of 2005, when I was at my heaviest weight ever and pregnant with my second son, I spent months of worrisome time on bed rest, trying to keep my blood pressure down and my contractions quiet, attempting to keep my growing baby inside until it was time.  Or at least, closer to time. 

I was due to have Jack in February, and knew there would be trouble when by October my blood pressure began to rise with each doctor visit.  I began having contractions on and off in November, still three months too early, and by December I was admitted to the hospital, undergoing repeated ultrasounds and preemie lung steroids, laying perfectly still so as to require my body to put all of its efforts into growing and sustaining my baby for as long as possible.  And week by week we celebrated further development, better hopes for breathing and ounces of weight gain for the baby. 

Spending a good part of that Christmas season in the hospital, I had a good deal of quiet time to read and think, which is imaginably less than the norm, being mom to an active three year old at home. During one of my stays I brought with me Raising Boys (choosing the book because, yes, the obvious title, but also because back then I was feeling quite romantic about the whole idea of raising two adorable little boys just like those on the cover of the book, who stood perfectly still and quiet for pictures.)  (Act of God.)  One of the nurses I'd gotten to know, who had raised three boys of her own, gave me a knowing laugh, and even called over another nurse to point out my book when she noticed what I was reading.  And together they gave me the "just wait and see" speech from atop their collective male-raising soap box. 

I, of course, at the time with just one three year old child, understood the penchant for climbing and noise, and pummeling his father on the living room floor at every opportunity, but I'd not yet raised boys.  Boys who had been influenced by the world outside and had each other to try it out on; who would enjoy tackling each other almost as much as they do their father, and who care nothing for clothing or washing but everything about guitar solos, and constructing the absolute tallest towers and subsequently crashing them to the ground.  In the noisiest ways possible, of course, followed by the most ear drum-splitting cheers. 

So I was still a fairly new mom, all things considered, and still believed all things child-raising to be mostly within my control (clearly only three pages into the book.) I told myself that MY boys would not grow up all crazy and loud like what the nurses had described.  It was all in the upbringing, I told myself. 

Jackson was born on January 1st, the New Years Baby at our hospital, weighing a tiny four pounds but with all the fight in the world.  He breathed on his own even as premature as he was, and he ended up needing only a little special care. 

I was unable to finish reading my book.

Fast forward four years to where I am a mother of three, now, and cannot seem to find those original parenting ideas anywhere, as they're probably buried beneath a stack of Autobot drawings, junk mail and homeschool workbooks, stuck to the bottom of a painted page that was thrown in the pile before the largest glops of paint had completely dried. 

Earlier this week I was sharing an afternoon at the park with a mom-friend of mine, who is raising five and two year old boys, and we casually shared our chaos-containing stories like they were completely normal, because by now they are, and we both love them dearly.  Our boys darted around, climbing up the slides and hopping down from too-tall platforms, blasting each other with pretend weapons, yelling at the tops of their lungs and yielding sticks.  I was once a little nervous to raise all of this, infinitely less familiar than my husband with the need for motion, guns and bad guys, as I grew up a girl.  Not a girly-girl, but a bit more subdued, nonetheless.  (Verified by another friend of mine as we discussed it just this morning over coffee and children playing everywhere, that no, not so much with the little girls and the blasting each other.  You?  Same experience?)  (I digress.)

From the park we then herded our five young children, their parade of scooters and our two large strollers into the back corner booth (because we might be nuts, but we're not crazy) of the close-by Dairy Queen where we showered our crowd with a fun evening of cheeseburgers and chocolate-dipped ice cream cones. 

The floor around our table was a disaster by the end, and our children were covered in ketchup and chocolate- a few of them all the way to the ankles of their already grass-stained jeans.  And they'd managed to paint chocolate goatees on themselves before we noticed, laughing their fool heads off, loudly, of course.

In passing my friend had heard the teenage girls behind the counter discussing our brood-- the moms with the seven little kids (clearly unable to keep count with all of the the excited leaping, hopping and jumping in the back corner...ish) like it was quite the scene.  And when she shared that conversation with me, we both laughed, and I pointed out that ten years ago?  We too would have thought this quite the scene.  And yet now how we adore the scene.

Before I had two little boys, and three children, I had so much to learn.  When it comes to anything with motherhood I am always grateful that God grows us into our roles, and into their ages.  This certainly comes with good reason. 

It wasn't too many years ago that I seriously worried about all of the tackling, noise level and mess with my two guys, and whether it was even normal, or good.  Their relationships with me, our love for each other, so unique and fantastic, and yet no matter what rules I imposed or rewards I offered, only rarely could I acheive the calm I assumed I could bring to my guys with a mom's influence. 

In my earliest days of motherhood I held tightly to the belief that with enough discipline, children would simply behave, and that all of the glares in public could be avoided.  I had yet to grow into my understanding that judgments and nasty looks are, for the most part, adult problems.  Kids are the most free, teaching beings around, happy to be exactly who they are and do whatever comes most natural to them.  It is the grown-ups, who will be the first to tell you they know it all, who impose so many social rules- sometimes for good reason and other times straight from the pit of our own neuroses and insecurities. 

In perfect timing with our chocolate ice cream escapade of two nights ago, I had just finished reading Broken Open by Elizabeth Lesser, another mom of boys.  And in one part of her book she talks about what she calls the Vroom Vroom Gene, where no matter what fair play she had exposed her boys to, in a room of little guys and little girls one will almost always witness a particular group with their dump trucks, going vroom vroom across the floor.  I find it so endearing. (As I do the friend-making, dolly-lovin' witnessed with little girls, though that's for another post.)

I have become so seasoned to the Vroom Vroom Gene over the years, and yet it is all so fresh and new as we venture from babyhood through toddlerhood and preschool-ville, now into the real deal of boyhood in year seven with my oldest.  And I feel myself growing again, with a child ready to pull away from me in ways I didn't expect, who knows more than I imagined and believes he knows even more than that.  Wonderful and terrifying all in the same, as always. 

*

As an aside I need to mention, perfectly fitting as I stopped typing here to eat dinner with my little family, that I spent a good portion of our rainy, chilly afternoon peeling, chopping and seasoning my home-made vegetable soup for tonight's dinner.  I prepared two seperate pots- one with meat for those so inclined, and one with lentils.  All afternoon I boiled and simmered, tasted, added and checked on to ensure a nice dinner for tonight.

Kevin arrived home from work at seven, and as I typed away here, he filled soup bowls and set out spoons.  We finished dinner and just before leaving the dinner table, my three year old announced, "You made the best vegetable soup ever, dad!" 

(And now that I've hit on the boy loyalty, I think we've covered everything.  Heh.)

Comments

[Cindy]

I bet nothing beats us waiting at TGIF with 7 children, 2 moms and 2 dads! That was a HOOT!
As you go back and talk about your pregnancies, it always reminds me of mine. I will never forget chit chatting with you about both of us wanting to get pregnant for a 2nd time.
I will never forget the day I got the positive pregnancy test, so happy, but so scared to share with you my good news knowing that you guys were trying as well and had no news yet. I got the courage up to share my news with you.....and a few weeks later you shared the same. Nothing beats chit chatting our days away as we would discuss of feelings, our worries, would we have boys, girls, or 1 of each?
And in the end, those 3 little stinkers decided to give us the ride of our lives with coming early. Now ~ we have a hard time keeping up!
Thanks for the memories Moll!

[Jen L.]

I love boys. I always wanted to be a mom of boys. I remember when I was about 5 months pregnant with Dean, it hit me one day that my baby might actually be a girl (we didn't find out ahead of time) and I had to take some time to get used to the idea. While I know I would have loved having a daughter, too, I'm ecstatic to have a son.
This is such a beautiful post.

[Erica]

I loved this post! Jacob was a quiet little guy, always happy, not into trucks, or guns or really anything too boyish. Then. There was Ben. Holy lord. Now that Jacob is older he is oozing with all of the boyishness that wasn't there when he was a little guy. Just wait until they are ten and have 5 boys over for a sleepover. You will not believe the noise. My neighbors still shoot us dirty looks ;) Enjoy!

[Jennifer]

I relish your stories of your boys because my 3.5 yo boy has energy and boy-ishness abound! It seems all my friends with boys have the quiet, reserved, bookish types & they pity me as the mom with the lively, full-of-energy-all-day-long boy. When I read this, I felt relieved and overjoyed that, even though my son is an only child, he is just all boy. Even as I write this, he is beating his chest, yelling like King Kong, running around the living room trying to jump off furniture, and now using his chalk as a gun. I'm sure my downstairs neighbor hates us! LOL It's just good to know that my son isn't so different.

[Jenny]

Mr. Holland's Opus! (One of my favorite movies!)
The Vroom Vroom gene definitely hits it on the mark. The gene attacks you 5 seconds through the front door! (sometimes less than that).
Can't wait for tomorrow.

[Jenny Bolz]

Oh Molly- This is such a sweet tribute to boys. God, how I love them! I never realized how fully I would embrace the loud and crazy (even though I still plan to patent a kid-sized hamster wheel). The ride on life's roller-coaster is sooo much wilder with boys on board. I wouldn't change it for the world. Thanks for sharing.

[Frema]

Hey, girls can Vroom Vroom, too! Kara actually takes the little cars you bought for Nathan and drives them all over the carpet, dining room floor, and kitchen table.

Before Nathan, I was just as proud to be a mom to a daughter as you were to be a mom to boys. When I got pregnant again, I hoped so badly I would have another girl so that I would have children who were also sisters. When we learned Nathan was a boy, I was excited but nervous. Now that he's here, though, I'm so enamored with exactly who he is. I'm also eager to see Kara and Nathan grow up together and challenge all those outdated stereotypes about boys and girls. I love that Kara's into airplanes and cars, and I love that Nathan enjoys pushing her babydoll stroller. It gets better all the time, and we grow as parents all the time. That's true no matter how many kids you have, or how old they are, or what sex they are. Thank goodness. :)