MoBs Part 3: My Birthday "Present"

Last Friday was my birthday. It was a typical Erev Shabbos, actually more relaxed since we were invited out for lunch (shout out to my favorite next door neighbors!:).


After I clean up on Friday on the main floor, I usually stand at the bottom of the stairs, take a few deep breaths and attempt to arm myself with patience. I do this because I am aware that when you send five or six kids upstairs to shower or bathe themselves, you are going to be met with a mess. Usually a very large, very wet mess. So, like every other Friday, I trekked upstairs about a half an hour before Shabbos armed with saintly amounts of patience.


As I peeked into the "kids'" bathroom, I once again girded my proverbial loins. It was worse than usual. There was about an inch of water on the floor; books, toilet paper, shoes were ruined. The bathmat and clothes left on the floor (do you know just how many clothes are left on the floor in a family of eight on Friday afternoon?) were all soaked. I was mad, but  managed to clean it up and keep my cool when I was told it was *mostly* N. Can't blame big kids when little ones decide to chuck everything overboard into the tub.


That took me 15 minutes, and I only had about 15 minutes until shabbos to shower and get ready. Still doable for me, I'm always the last shower, I would just have to hurry. 


But then... I entered... the scene of the crime. I went into my bedroom, and without getting too dramatic I was seriously worried that someone was lying wounded somewhere in the house. My beautiful (expensive!) baby blue comforters were both (remember, we have two full size beds) covered in...blood. Yes, blood. 


Now, not the pools of blood type, but huge big stains of blood seriously covering my blankets, sheets, pillows, and...wait for it... there was even blood on the walls. No, I am not exaggerating,  and yes, after making sure everyone was still alive and not slowly ebbing away somewhere I cried. Long and hard I cried. 


We narrowed it down to two very guilty looking culprits who "did not realize" they were both (!) bleeding from recent cuts on their feet from a hike they had just returned from. For some reason unbeknownst to me and all humankind they decided to jump long and hard from bed to bed before their baths. And the wall? "I don't know, I think we were kicking the wall...?"


After a big speech by both Imma and Abba re: Caring About Other People's Property and Being Responsible for Your Actions I kicked them out of my room and started laughing. It was a scary high-pitched maniacal laugh, while BAW looked on nervously (presumably to make sure I wasn't going to jump off the mirpeset with just a few moments till shabbos to spare). The truth is I had no such thoughts, but the fact that my bed just looked like a dog had given birth on it or a young chicken had been recently slaughtered in my bedroom kind of struck me as funny.


This story ends relatively well. Somehow most of the blood is not noticeable after a good washing. At least it doesn't look like blood anymore. I'm hoping to get them in the machine a few more times and see if I can totally get it out. Why not just flip them over? Im glad you asked. Because on the other side is original artwork by N, in black permanent marker -- duh!


Hopefully, I'll remember the chocolate cake baked by my loving children, and decorated with an unnatural amount of frosting and sprinkles as well as the  beautiful and sweet homemade signs and cards. But I'm pretty sure I'll remember this particular birthday *present* for years to come. 

A Quilt

I can't help it, but I have to post again.

My mouth is agape at a beautiful quilt that my FB friend has sewn and shared pictures of. It's stunning, really. The seams are perfect, the edging is flawless and the fabric is beautiful.

I sigh wistfully as I click through her pictures. And several thoughts go through my mind.

1. She finished a quilt today. I threw away a perfectly good shower curtain because it had, well, poop on it.

2. Her quilt is laid beautifully across the floor. My floor may just have poop on it.

3. She lovingly has a family heirloom to pass down to her children one day and her grandchildren may very well fondly come to think of it as "Bubby's/Savta's/Grandma's Quilt." Me? Does an old t-shirt we bought at the Playmobil museum in Florida count as an heirloom? No, that most decidedly does not have poop on it. Probably.

FB is dangerous. It makes us see what others have, and immediately our minds go to what we are missing. You have to be a strong one to surf FB and not be jealous or intimidated by other mothers who obviously (according to their chipper Status Lines) "Did all the laundry, washed the floors (with a toothbrush!), went to the gym, did all the homework with their kids, and lost 5 lbs! And it's only 9am!"

I am content in my roll of MOBs, really! It's just that sometimes I sigh and dream of being a MOGs. Just for a few minutes. Where one can go into the bathroom and actually use the bathroom without having to clean it first.

A girl can dream, can't she?

"Em HaBanim" - "Mother of Sons"

Warning: May Contain Bathroom Humor


Lately, try as I may, I can't seem to get the Big "P" smell out of my bathrooms. I wash, scrub, disinfect. And yet it lingers. I am transported to my 16 year old self who could never, EVER find a bathroom in the house that did not smell like the Big "P".  My mother is a cleaner, and I have inherited the gene, so don't think otherwise. It's a male thing. With 6 brothers in the house growing up, and now 5 of my own sons, it's time to reflect on being a Mother of Boys. 


We are a tough bunch us MoBs. Although I do have a daughter, I still consider myself one of this group as our numbers are a 5:1 ratio, leaning heavily towards boys. I love boys. I have been surrounded by them since I was young, and am not scared of this magnificent breed. And yet, they are mysterious creatures these little men.


Take for example the morning cry of "Pee-Pee 'X'" that I hear almost daily from my early morning slumber. Have no idea what I am talking about? Ah, you are not a MoBs. My younger kids (thankfully, yes, I would be worried if it were the bigger ones) race to the bathroom every day, and when they get there at the same time, that doesn't stop them my friends. It's just an excuse for the morning's Pee-Pee X, wherein they will use the bathroom at the same time, and yes, make an "X" as they simultaneously aim into the toilet.


There is also the needing to go to the bathroom once we have gotten into the tub. Most of my young gentlemen will get out and use the toilet, and then renter the tub. Some will not. And then there are the ones that will stand up in the tub, and aim in the general direction of the toilet. Hit or Miss.


Sorry MoGs, but you didn't know what were missing, did you?


There are also the constant pile ups. Usually in good fun, this entails a large pile of boys on the living room floor. There is much yelling and screaming, grunting and squawking. Mostly there is no blood. I am a big proponent of Boys Should be Boys. There is actually an awesome book out there with the same title by a child psychologist named Meg Meeker, MD that should be required reading for any MoBs. Check it out. Because of this philosophy I let them have their nerf guns, swords, playmobil knights, bows and arrows, BB  guns,etc. 


To their credit, it should also be noted that boys are not just disgusting and violent (Ok, mostly they are). Boys are also the ones that love their Mommas to the end. They are the ones that hold our hands, tell us that they want to marry us, that they will never leave us (wait, can you please sign here that you actually said that?). They are the ones who will become men under our noses, Bnei Mitzva, Bnei Torah, the ones who will carry on the family name, and have little Ws of their own one day. As our girls, our boys will (and do!) make us tremendously proud. 


My mother always tells the story of one of my brothers who at the time was innocently eating a piece of toast, when out of the blue he bit it into the shape of a gun and started shooting. At the time we had no TV, and he had no point of reference. 


Point is, boys like to shoot. And maybe bathroom time is just another target practice.