(*Note, if you know me, you will know that I am the last person to make gender stereotypes or, frankly, to make any judgements about a person’s behavior or character based on things such as sex, gender or any other personal feature. So I am not actually being sexist here I promise.)
But, alas, when I had my daughter I never childproofed my house. Why?
Was a negligent parent?
No, I was an anxiety-ridden freak who Purelled the straps on wooden restaurant high chairs.
But she was just so good. And dainty. And she didn’t get near the stairs, or touch any of my things like all of the decorative balls in bowls or mirrored coffee tables or fragile picture frames. She just knew to “look with her eyes and not with her hands”, almost inherently.
And then I went for round two. And round two had (has) a penis.
And I have been told, and again, this is just something that I am reiterating, that people with these organs,
whom we often refer to as little boys,
are a bit more…active.
So gone are the days of my beautiful mirrored coffee table from Lambertville and crystal bowls with balls.
In fact, last month, right before my time away, I heard my little boy crying around that coffee table on a Sunday afternoon as I was reading and cooking dinner and lazing around. When I finally got around to checking on him to see what was the cause of his upset, I saw what can only be described as a murder scene. The mirrored coffee table was covered in a POOL of blood. Seven stitches later and that table is now in my basement. My crystal bowl is now out of reach. We now have soft, fabric, chevron ottomans. They are ok.
But I have been adjusting. Adjusting to the fact that my son’s favorite toys are the ipad, the remote, the computer and the toilet. The water in the toilet, to be specific.
Oh? What’s that? How many times has he fallen (dove) off of the bed or couch? Are you talking about just today?
It is a whole new world, m’friends. A whole new world.
So just now, as I was pacing the first floor, making lunch, talking on the phone with my best friend, tidying up, I was stopped dead in my tracks by what I can only refer to as yet another murder scene. Thank god this time there was no blood shed.
Only my own.
If you have followed me over on 511, you might recall my love affair/battle with a certain dried hydrangea arrangement in my entrance hallway.
And finally, finally, I had
The punk. Didn’t even try to hide.
So, that is the tale of me, my beloved hydrangeas, my sweet bruiser of a son
(I still love you with all of my heart, kid.)
and a Y chromosome.