ODE TO A BOY

“OOOOOWWWWWWWAAAAA!!!!”

I studiously rub my knee from the pit bull puncture wounds my son just left on my leg. I’m shocked that his teeth weren’t embedded in the craters he left. How sweet he was to leave a mold of his upper and lower palate, tattooed into my flesh with vicious love. At least, in the years to come, when the dentist needs an impression of his teeth, they can just use the permanent impression on my leg.


When little girls teethe, they whine, they cry, they want a sippie cup.

Boys? They bite. HARD. Any body part is fair game. My son develops lock-jaw when he bites.
(Oops, oh, oh sorry! I need to pause here to jot something down on my grocery list. ‘Buy…dog…collar…at…the…store... DON”T FORGET!!!’)

I’m buying my son a spike collar today. I’m petrified of getting sued. Even though he is on my property, all those crazy ‘I have my rights’ people will sue me if I don’t take the necessary steps and post “DANGER” signs around the premises.
So, I've taken action...

BEWARE OF BABY BOY!!!

My son has—because he thinks its fun—been using the fleshy part by my knee as his teething toy. He takes a chunk out of my leg and calls it good eatin’ as if it were a juicy watermelon. Honestly, kid, if you bite a little higher, you’ll find cottage cheese.

My little man has been raised in a house full of girls. So, it’s not a surprise that he has discovered how to scream—unlocking the dimensions of its 'all-mighty power.' That power gives him exhilarating energy and makes his sister’s scream back as they try to throw something at him. And his all-encompassing screams make his mother wilt into a ball and cry uncontrollably, covering her ears as her hands slide into her hair, pulling it out in clumps. Bald patches now glow dimly in the reflection of the 60 watt light bulbs above.

He’s like the mini-me verision of Jabba the Hut as he laughs. (His high shrill setting him apart from Mr. Jabba’s deep bass voice.) I guess if I were in his shoes, I’d laugh too. His mama now looks like a mutant relative of the gremlin.

My eardrums are the victim of collateral damage. I’m surprised the ear canals haven’t burst from his high screeching. I’ve already jotted down a few things for my wish list for Christmas.

1st thing: Detachable ears. That's so I can peel them off when he belts out notes higher than Mariah Carrey ever could.


I’ve cataloged some differences between boys and girls.

Boys, they see a bug...

They think: destroy. Annihilate. They squeeze the bug’s little guts out because the oozing of green guts is funny. When bug is dead, then they find another one because mutilating it was so morbidly fun.

Girls, they see a bug. If they don’t run and scream, then they adopt their potato bug or lady bug and bond with them. They name them girly names like: Buggy, Lady, Emma.

Girls will build them a home in an enclosed air-tight glass jar and feed them grass clippings and build them forts out of leaves. They will devote the next hour to taking “good care" of said bug. Chances are they will end up frying them alive, having left them in the sun in a hot glass jar, killing them just like boys do, but they will think: ‘precious bug is “sleeping.”’ (because it’s on it’s back, shriveled up in a grotesque ball.)

Then they will happily go find another bug to keep it company because—it needs a friend.

Girls also want an ant farm...

They have names for every ant. They watch them dig and haul chunks of food through ant mazes, they want to tuck the ant farm into their bed at night and sleep with it.

Boys...they fry them with a magnifying glass on the sidewalk and laugh and shriek in delight when the ant sizzles and smokes, giving “high 5’s” and shouting congratulatory remarks such as “Cool!” and “Awesome!”

Girls like to wear pretty dresses. They twirl and dream and pretend they are princesses, renaming themselves Cinderella, Belle, or Aurora—and demand that you refer to them correctly—for that is the only name they will answer to today.

Little Boys….they secretly want to be princesses too—a princess in drag, but only if they get to be half naked and spike their hair into a rockin’ bad Mohawk. (or maybe that’s just my kid….)

Boys will then play Barbie’s —but only if they can dismember Malibu Barbie piece by piece because an invasion of dinosaurs flying alien spaceships tased her and ran over her with their space ship. Then, they rip off her legs and pretend to eat them like chicken thighs from KFC and shove them up their nostrils, like stick boogers hanging from their nose. And they will do it again. Only this time, they yank Barbie’s arms from her sockets in a contest to see who can get the most plastic extremities shoved up their nose.

Barbie is now a pile of appendages.

Sister is now howling hysterically, running down the hall sobbing, “Barbie is dead.”

Girls want to help you turn on the hose to water your plants. They are drawn to the water—getting themselves wet after drowning the flowers in your flowerbed and then turning the hose on someone else—because it’s funny to see someone’s startled reaction.

Boys….they want to help too. But they cry impatiently waiting for their turn. And then…and then, boys being boys, come up with the realization that they came equipped with their own hose and so they water the bushes with their own plumbing. And they giggle uproariously, getting themselves wet when they glance over their shoulder and see mom’s startled, horror-struck reaction as she runs, swipes him up into a football hold and hides him from the neighbors.

Girls need walls, privacy.

Boys….they go wherever, whenever.

Who cares if anyone is watching?


I get that boys have easy access, but who said it was okay for them to fertilize the lawn? Boys dump and go like their Tonka dump trucks unloading cargo in a sand box. Toilet Paper? It’s that foreign language painted on the side of the tonka truck.

Don’t get it—don’t understand it—don’t care.

It’s one thing to clean up “fertilizer” from a diaper—but to actually scoop it up with a shovel like cleaning up your dog’s “mess”—is downright embarrassing!

He sure makes my life interesting. I love when he gurgles his cereal, always accidently snorting it up his nose and making himself cry just so that I can hug him, assure him he’s fine—so that he can do it again.

I think it’s hilarious that he hides from me to strip off his diaper and waits for me to walk down the hall—waiting for the right moment—just so that he can race out in front of me so I will chase him.

(You better believe it! His equipment is time-sensitive!)


I dedicate this to my little man. I love your wildness, kiddo!

*Reminder: there is still time to enter the Fancy Free Friday Jewelry this week. For more info, check the blog post below.

(*Thanks Tina for your beautiful modeling pics!*)