boys & trucks

Ours is not a pink world. Princess, twirl, lady-like, and pretty are not really a part of my vocabulary. I know far more about trucks, construction, and trains than I’d ever care to admit and have been known to excitedly point out cement mixers, flat-bed trucks, and even orange road cones.

I gave the boys a mid-morning bath after some outside playtime last week, and our tub had a ring of dirt around it.

I’ve made up a game called “popcorn.” It’s essentially pushing the boys over when they’re bouncing on our bed. Literally. The entire game is shouting, “popcorn!” and pushing them down. And they love it.

I’m raising my boys to leave me. I know as adults their phone calls will be few and far between, and I likely won’t be ringing them up to go shopping or chit-chat. We won’t ooh and awww as we shop for prom dresses, we won’t pour over wedding decoration catalogs together, we won’t bond over pregnancy pains, and their wives’ relationships with their Moms will hopefully take a backseat to their relationships with me.

I’ll soon not be the most important woman in their world, so I’m not taking a second of our wrestling, dirt-digging, booger-picking, ball throwing, truck-gasping moments for granted. I’m treasuring every tear-filled plea to kiss a boo-boo, every request of, “Mommy, cuddle wif me!”, every kiss they let me steal, and every ounce of knowing the safety and joy my presences gives them. I’m earnestly soaking it all in, knowing that it won’t last forever.

My name is Jen. And I am a Boy Mom.


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