The Dangerous Book for Moms of Boys

The following excerpt from a blog post by a Coma resident is reproduced by Coma News as a community service.

The Dangerous Book for Moms of Boys
by Sadie Cracker

Then, outside there is some yelling. They are yelling about what a fart smells like in the early autumn air.
There are three of them, small little boys, and I am wholly outnumbered. This was supposed to be a simple playdate.

But I’ve bandaged two knees already and caught them peeing in to the flower pot on my front porch for no real reason other than this is how it is. The dangerous motherhood of boys.

I imagined motherhood would be a beautiful and special experience filled with pink bows and tafetta dresses. And yet when you hold the baby boys in all blue and light and see the small feet there is a love. So the dresses and the girl bonding times no longer matter.

Ben will take a bat to his brother and someone will cry, and it’s not like I’ve taught them to be this way. I don’t pee in bushes, light fires or build race cars out of cardboard.

Then this time fades like so many fall leaves to the winter-white-out of what I don’t see with my preteen boy. Where I’m not wanted around. Where I barely see him. Where I am not his dad. Because I don’t ‘understand’ him–but I could learn! I can try to pee in a bush, light a fire and I can make things with cardboard and I can still bandage a knee.

And I hear them in the backyard, small feet, running through the first dry leaves of fall. My little one and his two buddies. Screaming and jumping up and down. The energy is electric.
And I hear the music of Ca$h Out, ‘She Twerkin’,  filter down from the teenage boy room above me and I know I won’t hear from him until dinner when he needs some food or wants the keys to the car.

“Mommmy, help me.” the Ben yells from the back yard. And so I run to him because I know the season will end.

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