I’ve been through the Boy Wars.
I grew up with seven brothers. I do have a sister, but with nine years and five brothers between us, boys dominated my childhood. Star Trek outvoted Partridge Family. I was street goalie to their Bobby Orrs. And I had to fight to use the bathroom so don’t even try to tell me about girls being bathroom hogs.
And the socks. The socks, half-pulled off their feet and emanating stink lines. When my friends were going boy-crazy, I was thinking, “I know what you smell like.” Truly, my brothers were the most effective prophylactic a teenage girl could have.
It wasn’t until my high school formal that I had a boy bring me home from a date. We stepped into the house and there before us was a collection of my brothers playing poker. They looked up and casually said, ‘Hey, Mike.’ Mike started, then briskly shook my hand and left. And yes. Yes it was the only night of my life I ever saw them play poker at the dining room table.
So when my husband and I were considering adopting three brothers, I was sure I was the Mom for the job. When I sought my own Mother’s thoughts, she laughed, then told me, “One is one. Two is two. And three is seventeen. Once they outnumber you, it doesn’t matter – it’s just more spaghetti in the pot and more hugs.”
So this veteran of the Boy Wars volunteered for another tour of duty, and I became Mother to three noisy, curious, energetic mess-machines. More to come.