Let me start from the beginning.
I was a girly girl, mostly. I learned to cook, I tried to learn to sew, I was a sought after babysitter, and dreamed of being surrounded by admiring teenage boys.
True, I threw the discus and shot-putt, mowed lawns for my landscaper Dad, knew my bench press and squat max weights and could throw a softball to home plate from center field. But, my picture of life in the future involved teaching my daughters to be confidant, flirty and surrounded by teenage boys, everything I wasn't.
When #1 was born, followed closely by #'s 2- 4, I was taken in by their chubby, drooling babyness and didn't recognize them as potential teenager boys. As they grew, I found their funny boy ways, peeing outside and assembling rock and stick collections in their bedrooms, cute, and adorable.
The pre-teen years were full of scouts and reptiles, backyard inventions and neighborhood skirmishes. Once again I failed to recognize that all my girly dreams involving gaggles of gangling teen boys were growing up right under my nose. I was too caught up in being the cool mom who would fish a Black Widow Spider out of the pool so my sons bug collection would be completely awesome.
Even when #1 and #2 turned ages that ended in 'teen', it didn't occur to me that this was the nightmare version of my adolescent dreams.
It wasn't until my vacation last week that the full realization hit me. Every aspect of my life has has been completely taken over by TEENAGE BOYS, my dreams have come true.
What the... was I dreaming
Allow me to elaborate.
I'm a good driver. I enjoy driving. I have three teenage drivers. I don't drive anymore! Anywhere!
I hate laundry. My teenagers play football, run cross country, participate in choir and ballroom dance, play baseball, and, I think, roll around in mud mixed from sweat and pig manure. These activities create loads and loads and loads of dirty stinky laundry.
Each night, in those early years, I would set the table complete with two forks and salad plates and serve lovingly prepared meals for Adorable Hubby and I in cute little serving dishes. Our darling little leftovers were placed in precious little three compartment containers with lids and matching plastic ware for our lunches the next day. Fast forward 20 years. Nothing cute about it. Quantity not quality is our motto! Leftovers? Should we be lucky enough to end up with leftovers, Adorable Hubby and I would have to dive into the fray with claws extended and fangs slashing to get a portion for our lunch.
Life can be smelly. Babies can be smelly. Teenagers. Are. Smelly! I went to my thirteen year old's concert at the Jr. High this past spring. Foolishly I managed to get separated from Adorable Hubby. Seeing a group of kids from church and the neighborhood who would recognize Adorable Hubby, I made my way to the middle of the group to ask if they had seen him, I took a deep breath and opened my mouth to pose my question but never asked it, the smell of nervous teenagers filled my nostrils and I was forced to run gagging, eyes streaming to fresh air. Adorable Hubby walked home.
And, speaking of smells, did you know there is a dangling tree car freshener scent called Black Ice? It reeks of teenage boy cologne.
And, speaking of smells, did you know that teenage boy deodorant is over four dollars a can and needs to be used with a five dollar bottle of teenage boy body-wash to achieve maximum olfactory acceptability. And, that a freshly body-washed, deodorized, teenage boy will then spray enough 15 dollar a bottle cologne over himself to fill a stadium with the overwhelming aroma of teenage manliness and that you may have to get in the Black Ice scented car with that teenager and be driven somewhere by him.
And, speaking of smells, did you know that teenage girls actually seem to like a teenage boys scent to leave watering eyes and stuffy sinuses lingering in a room long after he has gone.
Teenage laddies are very proud of their developing musculature; and, what better than a pro-wrestling exhibition in the living room to showcase their burgeoning biceps. Adorable Hubbys' yells to "TAKE IT OUTSIDE THE HOUSE IS LOSING," are drowned out by the brawling, drunken, fans also known as, little brothers.
Teenage boys like it LOUD, you'd think after all the times I've had to turn off the car and go back in to change my panties that I'd have learned. No, Each time I get in, turn on the car, and, just as I turn my head for the backing maneuver, get blasted by some eighties rock group cranked so loud only dogs can hear the high notes, causing my heart to stop and my bladder to contract just as shock renders my sphincter useless. Egads! More freaking laundry.
Add to these counseling sessions, cracking voices, attitudes, skid marks, circadian rhythms, size 12 shoes, broken hearts, and an eighteen year old addressing me by my first name accompanied by an eye roll.
What the... was I dreaming indeed.
Of course there is, sitting between two strapping, handsome, young men at a chick flick. And bear hugs. And, let me get that for you Mom, moments. And, "You look hot in that Mom." Or coming home to a clean kitchen and happy little ones which tends to make it all dreamy again.