Raising Boys

I sometimes feel disadvantaged being the only “girly” at home. The boys seem to have a special bond I cannot penetrate. It doesn’t help either that the little boy always reminds me that I am not one of them.

“Mom, we are three boys, ikaw one lang.” “You have no daughter. You just buy a daughter.”

The boys also have regular fart-y times with Dad as the initiator. I don’t know what makes noisy farting fun, but the combined shrieks and laughter of the kiddos every time Dad lets out his butt whistles do tell me they sure have a good time. Of course, I can’t relate with something I find gross. The boys though, regard their Dad’s icky habit normal if not enjoyable. Yuck! In fact there were two occasions when, while we were inside a mall, Orvik just blurted out, within earshot of a saleslady, “Mommy, si Daddy umutot naman. Ang lakas! Ang galing!” And, at another time, while we were inside a classy restaurant waiting for our order, the unsuspecting kiddo again exclaimed, as though he won a lottery “Ang lakas ng utot ni Daddy!” Uh,uh. I had to cover his mouth and whisper to him not to talk that loud.

The rough creatures also bond together in, where else, but the pool. They could spend hours wriggling, tumbling and frolicking even in cold water with nary a shiver in their bones. While they enjoy their hearts out, I often find myself hustling and puffing in the kitchen preparing their dinner. I just find consolation in the fact that the boys have grateful spirits, and never forget to say, “Thank you, Mom!” after burping.

Playing soccer and watching soccer games (while comfortably slumped in the sofa) are also favorite past times. I think they must have watched “Goal” ten times already (it’s a movie about a Latino soccer player who made it big in London). And yet, they never get tired of viewing the same film with the thrill and excitement of first-timers.

As for me, I’d rather stare blankly in front of the VAIO monitor and pay attention to the voices within—voices that contend for space, structure and organization. Oh, I would have loved to hang out with the boys pretending to like their stuff, for the love of them. Writing though gives me the kicks. So, we better live and let live. The boys can do their stuff so long as I get to do mine. They can fart and shriek provided I have the sweet time and space to unleash the writer in me. There is nothing like exploring the limitless expanse of my magic wordland, where, for all I care, I can also fart and shriek, without looking over my shoulder and contending with disapproving glances.