Adventures of a Boy Mom

The other day my single friend asked me what motherhood is like. Her question gave me pause for a moment. I could tell her how wonderful it is. I could sugar coat it and only share the good parts. But then I thought, why lie?

Being a mom is like juggling chainsaws while riding a unicycle on a tightrope. But being a mom of not one, not two, but three boys? Buckle up, friends. That’s a whole new level of chaos! Yeah, you read that correctly – three boys. Ages 8, 14, and 19. If I survive this, I deserve a medal or at least a lifetime supply of wine.

So, let’s start with the youngest one – my eight-year-old tornado. You know you’re in for an adventure when he’s awake. It’s like having a tiny, over-caffeinated superhero who can’t decide whether he’s saving the world or causing chaos. Just yesterday, he decided the living room was a perfect jungle, and I found him jumping across the furniture, tennis racket in hand (thanks, Aunt Kathy), hunting a lion, also known as our dog, Daley. And don’t get me started on his food preferences. If it’s not shaped like a dinosaur, he is not eating it. I tried to sneak in some broccoli disguised as “dinosaur trees” – the look he gave me, you’d think I’d served him a plate of actual T-Rex poop.

Speaking of food, feeding three boys is like trying to fill a bottomless pit. I’m convinced they have some sort of secret compartment in their stomachs. I cook a meal, and within seconds, it’s gone. I sometimes wonder if I should just skip the plates and serve everything in a trough. It’d be more efficient, honestly.

Our dinnertime conversations are interesting. We go from discussing the mysteries of the universe, like why pizza is round but comes in a square box, to the intricacies of Minecraft architecture. I’ve learned more about pixelated building techniques than I ever thought I would.

Next we have the 14-year-old. Ah, the teenager. I remember when he was eight, he used to think I was the coolest person on Earth. Now, I’m just a walking embarrassment. Apparently, my mere presence is enough to mortify him. He communicates in a series of grunts and eye rolls. I recently tried to use some of his slang to seem “hip.” Big mistake. I mentioned his new shoes were “fire” and he looked at me with contempt.

Finally, the 19-year-old – he’s supposed to be an adult, but I swear he’s just a taller version of the 14-year-old with a driver’s license. He comes home from work and immediately hides in his room. He’s in that phase where he’s too cool for everything. Conversations with him usually involve a lot of one-word answers. I’ve become an expert at decoding grunts and deciphering the hidden meanings behind a raised eyebrow.

Let’s touch on the topic of laundry. It’s like a never-ending cycle of dirty clothes, especially with a 14-year-old who thinks that wearing the same pair of sweats for a week is totally fine. I’ve considered handing out gas masks to the family when it’s laundry day – you know, for safety reasons.

But you know what? Despite the craziness, being a mom of three boys is an adventure like no other. It’s like running a zoo, a circus, and a demolition derby all at once. There’s never a dull moment. I’ve learned to perfect my referee skills when they’re arguing over who gets the last slice of pizza – because apparently, that’s a matter of life and death. These boys might drive me up the wall, but they’re my heart and soul. They challenge me, they make me laugh, and they keep me on my toes. I wouldn’t trade it for the world.