nixtress's Diaryland Diary

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Boys

You know, indelibly, that you're raising boys when you hear, loudly and indignantly, "Trevor, don't spit on me! Make your gun noises THAT way!"
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I've said before and will continue to believe that little boys are born knowing how to make noises that accompany play with cars, trucks, Army men and anything remotely kick 'em up/beat 'em up. It never fails to amaze me how I can't seem to create one such noise from my own mouth yet they have a whole plethora to choose from.
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I recently read a blog in which a mother was lamenting The Great Black Void that socks, underwear and sometimes entire outfits get sucked into. I've learned that The Great Black Void has mini-voids as well, found in places like The Dark and Terrible Under the Bed Cavern, The Bottomless Closet and helped along by He Who Walks Behind the Dresser (reference Children of the Corn).
These mysterious and previously uncharted territories were discovered while spelunking for lost socks in my sons' bedroom.
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Little (and sometimes not-so-little) boys need splashguards for the toilet, especially in the morning hours when they think "things" automatically aim themselves.
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I give up. I can hear that song by Queen (Weeeee are the champions, my friendsssss) in my ears. They won. The war with my sons to get them to untie their shoe laces before slipping off their shoes is forfeited. All of my efforts to show them how the backsides of their shoes end up flimsy and destroyed, my convincing arguments for healthy feet and proper shoe fit have gone to the wayside.
Maybe it was a fruitless battle from the beginning. Ease and convenience win again.
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I think I will be forever stumped by the toothpaste splotches that end up on everything. I have sort of figured out how they get all over the faucet and countertops (all that tapping, you know) but that doesn't explain how the streaks end up on the wall, over every towel in the bathroom and polka-dots smatter the uppermost reaches of the mirror.
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Happy Sunday.
N.

12:00 p.m. - 2006-09-03

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