The Boy Moms at my sons’ grade school had a not-so-secret club. We were the ones who arrived early every afternoon, scanning the yard for forgotten lunch bags and hoodies. As kids spilled out the doors, the Boy Moms yelled for their boys, secured belongings, checked fists and pockets for teachers’ notes, then doled out snacks. Boy Moms Club would be in session, the Moms swapping advice and laughs while doling out bandages and warnings.
And the schoolyard would be full of boys. Wild, running, screaming, jumping boys. It was like the dog park only the wet noses were super gross. They mostly played in packs. The lone wolves would join in for a bit, but eventually wander off to drive a toy truck or dig in the sand.
We knew better than to take boys straight home. Letting their pent-up energy loose in the house was like trying to have high tea with a Tasmanian Devil. Come on. They’d just spent six hours trying to conform and follow rules, like line up, sit down, no cartwheels on the stairs. Boy Moms knew they needed at least a good hour of outside wild time before you could coax them into the civilized world of soap and walls.
Boy Moms Club was an all-season outdoors club. Only extreme weather – NO, more extreme than what you’re thinking right now – shut down the club.
I never felt more normal than my time in the Club. There was no need to feign award-winning parenting or high-achieving kids. It was a relief to be able to tell a boy story and see sympathy on their faces instead of horror. I’ll always be grateful to that klatch of Boy Moms and their endless supply of acceptance and juice boxes.