Besides the dog, I’m the only girl in the house. I’m a girly girl living in a house with three boys — one big and two small ones — all of whom register off-the-charts on the dude scale. When looking at our current house, sure, I loved the big backyard for my boys and their adjoining rooms. I also liked the fact that I get my own closet, a factor that may have played a larger role in our ultimate purchase than I admitted. My closet’s the only girly space that I have in a house full of testosterone and, if our dog ever goes missing, I can usually find her curled up on the rug in my closet. She gets it.
My days go something like this. I awake to the sound of Madden football being played or a little boy tapping me on still — closed eyes asking if I can open a food item of some sort that he’s climbed the pantry shelves to retrieve. By the time I get downstairs, Max has covered the floor with Pokeman and baseball cards, and Finn has trapped an evil superhero within a demolition derby of cars. The blankets that I folded hours before have now been used, along with every pillow in the house, to build a monster fort in the dining room that Finn declares he’s living in forever.
As the hours pass, the mess in the house grows and, by the time we leave for soccer, someone is frantically looking for a lost shin guard that will either turn up under the couch or in one of my handbags. I’ll notice that remnants of lunch have somehow been splattered underneath the kitchen island, but I’ll just make a mental note of it and add it to the hundreds of tiny pee drops that cover a bathroom wall that have to get wiped away.
The rest of the day will involve at least a few fights among the boys, and wrestling match or two that are always interesting to me because Max outweighs Finn by 25 pounds, and I can never understand how he loses. At some point, my husband will alert me to dent in our wall that is the exact shape of Finn’s head and black marks will appear on light gray walls that nobody will fess up to making. Through it all, my husband and I will remind both of the boys multiple times that touching private parts is not something that you do around other people — and definitely not while we’re playing a board game with your family — and the boys will remember for about 30 seconds before doing it again.
The day will end by explaining again why showers and baths are necessary, and reminding them again the role that soap plays in personal hygiene. My day will have been filled with moments that I worried someone broke a bone jumping off the stairs, moments that I expressed my irritation at the disgusting habit that Max has of leaving dirty socks in random places around the house, and moments when one — or both — of my boys will have been sent to their rooms for “quiet time” to give me a moment of peace.
My days are also filled with other moments. I get told that I’m beautiful every day. I overhear my boys bragging to their friends that they have the nicest mom in the entire world. Lately, I’ve received marriage proposals from my youngest, complete with plastic ring off a cupcake at school. I find love notes hidden all around the house for me to find, and a stuffed animal or two tucked into my bed simply because they love me. I get hugs and kisses that arrive without warning as they run across the room at warp speed to wrap their arms around me, and an 8-year-old who has no idea how big he is as tries to find the right snuggle position with me on the couch. My days are filled, more than anything, with moments of little boy love.
I have a closet filled with accessories, impractical shoes, and sparkly things that I bought simply because they sparkle. One closet is all I need of girly girl space. I’m the happiest in a house full of dudes who can’t explain marks on walls and show their love for one another through choke holds. Over the years, people have asked if I’ll “try for a girl” someday and I’ve never understood why. Sure, mothers and daughters often have fun playing princess but, to my boys, I’m the real thing.
