Let's Not Mistake Laziness for Efficiency

In a house overrun by boys, I often find myself snickering at behavior that is inexplicable and bizarre to my female brain.  It's tempting to poke fun at things you don't understand. However, this week I realized the converse is true: A woman is just as likely to engage in behavior that is utterly absurd and pointless to the male brain.  For example, if you're a woman, you're probably familiar with the following type of image:

If you're a man, a little explanation may be required.  You see, there is a segment of the female population that enjoys creating virtual outfits like the above, and then sharing them with other women on sites like Pinterest or Polyvore.  Their fashion ensembles are often posted with pithy comments like: "Perfect outfit for a summer garden party!"  And, you must understand that no detail is spared on these compilations.  We're not talking about simply pairing a blouse with a coordinating skirt.  These women have scoured the Internet for matching heels, earrings, two choices of necklaces, a handbag that can double as a crossbody purse if you switch out the strap, sunglasses in case said garden party takes place at high noon, sparkly hairband for wind contingency, the precise hue of Revlon nail polish and lipstick to accent aforementioned hairband, lacy bra and panties intended to be worn under outfit, and a complementary perfume that smells like hibiscus.

This "hobby" is basically the modern day, adult version of playing dress up with paper dolls.  Why a grown woman would spend hours of her life putting together outfits for non-existent future social engagements is completely beyond male comprehension.  Men don't plan what they're going to wear the next day, let alone next month to a hypothetical garden party that may or may not take place in a field of hibiscus flowers.

The way a man picks out clothes is very simple.  He walks into his closet and figures out what's clean, often by using the "sniff test," as we call it in my house.  (If there is nothing clean, he sifts through the dirty laundry pile to find something that doesn't make him wretch.)

My husband has distilled this process down even further by wearing only black shirts and jeans.  And whenever he finds jeans that fit, he buys several pairs of the exact style.  This way, he doesn't have to waste time thinking about what color he should be wearing on a Tuesday versus a Wednesday.

"Don't you ever worry that someone thinks you're wearing the same thing you wore the day before?" I asked him one night.  "All your black shirts look the same to me."

"Haven't you heard that Steve Jobs wore the same thing for twenty years?  Black turtleneck, jeans, sneakers.  Mark Zuckerburg always wears a grey hooded sweatshirt, even when he meets with Wall Street investors.  These are guys who have better things to do with their time than think about what to wear.  That's what I call efficiency."

My boys are already adopting this predilection for "efficiency", if you can call it that.  For example, a few months ago, the older two boys decided they could save a whopping ten minutes in the mornings by going to bed wearing their school uniforms.

"We can't let them sleep in uniforms," I told my husband, when the idea first came up.  "Doesn't that encourage them to be lazy?  They might grow up always looking for short cuts in life."

"If it saves me time getting them ready for school," he replied, "I'm all for it."

With a decisive vote of three to one, I was quickly overruled.  Apparently, there is a fine line between laziness and efficiency that my female brain cannot appreciate.

Which brings me back to my original point on how much time women spend thinking about what to wear.  Maybe the household majority is onto something here.  After all, I waste a lot of time admiring fancy dresses that I can't imagine myself ever wearing in real life.  I have an entire Pinterest board devoted to the pin-tucked and lace-embellished frocks featured on "Downton Abbey".  However, the truth is that I hardly wear dresses, not even the simple, unadorned kind.  So, why do I bother browsing for a pale yellow number that reminds me of what Lady Mary wore to the cricket game in Season Three? 

Perhaps I can learn a thing or two about "efficiency" from the men in this house.  I mean, it's not like I can't appreciate the difference between laziness and efficiency in other areas of my life.  I'm all for saving time when it comes to cooking dinner or cleaning the hardwood floors.  Am I lazy for making spaghetti again this week?  No way, mister, that's what I call... efficiency!   

Or maybe I should just throw my own garden party.  It wouldn't have to be that girly.  The boys could play cricket in the backyard.  I could dress them up in fancy sweater vests and white knickers, and I could wear a wide-brimmed hat decorated with cream-colored satin gardenias.  I wonder if Anthropologie sells a pair of ballet flats that would match such a pretty hat.  Maybe if I just take a peek on Pinterest...

If You Think About It, "Crude" is Just One Letter Away From "Prude"

A few weeks ago, my husband asked me to stop writing about our boys' fascination with potty humor. 

"People will get the idea we're bad parents," he said. "Your blog is becoming really lowbrow."

"I thought you found my blog mildly amusing," I replied, tapping away on my laptop.  At that moment, I was jotting down notes about a numeric code the boys had created. Everyone knows what it means to go "Number One" or "Number Two".  My older boys had taken the phraseology to another level by coming up with a dozen rather detailed (and if I may say, unusually nuanced) permutations involving peeing, pooping and upchucking. They'd spent the better part of an afternoon quizzing each other so they would not confuse Number Seven with Number Eleven, and so forth.

"Well, it was funny at first," he continued.  "I mean, the humor comes from the fact that someone like you found yourself raising boys who enjoy being crude..."

"Someone like me?" I looked up from typing.

"You know, you're kind of the, um... prim and proper type."

"Prim and proper" is the nice way of putting it.  "Prudish" is probably more accurate.  I'm not proud of it, but I can admit that from time to time, I am a prude.

Perhaps that is why I was given one husband and four sons who rather enjoy--no, dare I use the word revel--in breaking down my prudish sensibilities.  For example, a few nights ago, the two oldest boys came running over to me, clutching their stomachs from laughing so hard. 

"Mom," one of them began rather impishly, "we have a riddle for you.  Are you ready for it?"

I nodded, wondering what was coming next.  They were both giggling and jumping up and down in excitement.

"Even if you couldn't hear or smell it..." he continued, speaking rather slowly to draw out the suspense, "how would you see a fart?"

It was obvious they had spent a fair amount of time discussing this topic.  The one who came up with the "riddle" was beaming with pride, as if he'd stumbled on a deep metaphysical quandary.  I suppose this was their version of the philosophical debate about the tree that falls in the forest when no one is around to hear it. 

"Take your time," the other nodded, as if to reassure me.  "We want you to think about this."

"Really, guys," I replied.  "I could probably think about it for an hour and not come up with the answer you're looking for."

"We'll give you a hint," they whispered.  "The answer has something to do with bubbles.  And water."

My first reaction was to be a prude.  It's a hard disposition to correct.  But I realize I've spent enough of my life being a prude, and now that I share my life with boys whose idea of an afternoon well spent involves numbering the ways one can empty his bowels... I might as well embrace the transformation.

So instead, I congratulated them on contemplating an age-old question and added that, in fact, I knew of a second method.  They leaned in with the kind of palpable anticipation one would expect before hearing the truth about Roswell.

"Did you know," I began, making sure to enunciate my words slowly for dramatic effect, "that it's possible to light farts on fire?"

The boys exploded in laughter--the kind of laughter that is contagious and unstoppable and ends up either making you cry or feel sick to your stomach.  They shrieked and howled like this for several minutes without coming up for air. 

"No way, no way!" they screamed. "You're kidding, right, Mom?"

Finally, they calmed down and started asking questions about the mechanics of this improbable and glorious discovery.  I admit that I fudged part of the explanation because I only vaguely remembered hearing in college about a guy who succeeded in this endeavor.  But I spoke with confidence, as if I were an expert on the subject, because I understood the importance of this oddly momentous exchange.  And when I finished answering all their questions, they looked at me in a way that only young children who belong with you can... and I realized I might as well have received the award for Best Mom of the Year in their eyes.

There is a deleted scene from the movie "Love Actually" that may be one of the funniest clips I've ever seen.  It kills me that it wasn't included in the movie.  If this isn't one of Emma Thompson's finest acting bits, I don't know what is.  If you have three minutes, watch it.  If you're a mother of a son, watch it together.

My boys and I watched the clip twice last night, as I was finishing up my writing.  I don't mean to brag, but based on their riotous laughter followed by looks of utter devotion, I knew I'd clinched that Best Mom award for the second time this week.  Not bad, I might add, for someone who used to be a prude.

Talking is Overrated... Blah, Blah, Blah

My 4-year old spends a lot of time in the car while we shuttle his older brothers to and from school, soccer practices and piano lessons.  Therefore, it is only fair, in my opinion, to give him the right of first refusal when it comes to the all-important decision: What DVD should we watch in the minivan?

Lately, however, the grumbling from the two older boys regarding the little guy's viewing choices has become more pronounced.  My 8-year old, in particular, frequently protests that his brother's choices are "baby shows".  Said protests are then followed by vociferous arguments to replace "Blue's Clues" or "Thomas the Tank Engine" with something vastly more sophisticated... like "Elf".

This afternoon, the protests began the minute the older boys entered the minivan after school.

"Another baby show?" one of them exclaimed indignantly.  "Why are we always watching baby shows in the car?"

"What exactly is your problem with baby shows?" I asked.

"They're so boring," he replied.  "Nobody fights, and nothing gets blown up.  Usually somebody walks around and tries to teach you the alphabet.  But mostly it's a lot of nothing."

"Boooring," my 6-year old sighed from the back seat.  "We already know the alphabet.  Blah blah blah."

The exchange reminded me of another conversation I had with the boys over the summer while we watched "Kung Fu Panda".  On that evening, I had suggested we fast-forward through the fighting scenes. 

"They're rather violent for a kids' movie," I muttered, reaching for the remote control.   "And besides, the last fifteen minutes has been nothing but a montage of kicking, punching and jumping in the air.  It's kind of repetitive.  Boring.  Let's just watch the scenes with dialogue to see how the story develops.  That's more interesting."

"What?!?" my 8-year old gasped.  "I'd rather fast-forward through the talking scenes and just watch the fighting scenes.  The talking scenes are the boring parts."

"Why would we choose 'Kung Fu Panda' if we don't get to watch kung fu?" my 6-year old added, aghast.  "That makes no sense, Mom."

Alas, I realized there are two things going on here.  First, my boys are growing up.  Few are the years when their favorite shows are cartoons that teach you the alphabet.  Before I know it, my youngest son will be a third grader scoffing at "baby shows" and all the other things he loved as a little boy.  Time marches forward, even when you're not ready.

Second, a fundamental difference between boys and girls can be boiled down to this point regarding entertainment value: For boys, dialogue is overrated.  If nothing is blown up and no one gets shot at, boys wonder what they've just sat through.  

There's an excerpt from Donald Miller's Blue Like Jazz that always makes me laugh.  I like to imagine one of my boys writing something like this when he's grown up.  Donald mentions a piece of dating advice that he received from the opposite sex:

Here’s a tip I’ve never used: I understand you can learn a great deal about girldom by reading Pride and Prejudice, and I own a copy, but I have never read it.  I tried.  It was given to me by a girl with a little note inside that read: "What is in this book is the heart of a woman." I am sure the heart of a woman is pure and lovely, but the first chapter of said heart is hopelessly boring. Nobody dies at all. I keep the book on my shelf because girls come into my room, sit on my couch, and eye the books on the adjacent shelf. "You have a copy of Pride and Prejudice," they exclaim in a gentle sigh and smile. "Yes," I say. "Yes, I do."

To me, the funniest part of the paragraph above is the fact that Donald can't get through the first chapter of Pride and Prejudice because nobody dies in it.  This is funny because it illustrates the point that boys (of any age) really just want to see (or read about) stuff getting blown up.  

And this point rings no truer than with the largest boy in the house, my husband.  When we first started dating, I forced him to watch all of my favorite movies: "Anne of Green Gables", "Emma" and "Pride and Prejudice."  Oh, the things a man will do for a woman when they're dating.  The first time he watched "Emma," he may have fallen asleep. 

"That movie was pointless," he told me later.  "There's no storyline, no action.  It's just a bunch of women gossiping about other women.  Blah blah blah." 

"What?" I exclaimed. "Were we watching the same movie?  It's a love story between Emma and Knightley.  She is the earnest but flawed heroine who learns through her mistakes what is really important; and Knightley is the noble friend who loves her, despite all her shortcomings.  But he too is misguided in matters of the heart.  They both take a lot of wrong turns but eventually realize how much they need and love one other.  That is the heart of the story."

He paused and shook his head.  "All I heard," he replied, "was blah blah blah."

If I Pretend I'm Not Listening, Maybe They'll Stop Talking

I'm having a bit of a dilemma.  My 3- and 6-year old sons have decided that the phrase "butt crack" is the most hilarious thing on the planet.  I have no idea where they learned the term (one of them insists they heard it on PBS), but they are now slipping it into whatever sentence they can, whether it makes sense or not, and then laughing uncontrollably at how ingenious they are.  For example, this morning we were at a drive-through window when one of them decided he would go for it.

"Can I have a chocolate donut," my 6-year old called from the back seat of the minivan, and then paused for dramatic effect, "with sprinkles and a butt crack?"

"Excuse me," his younger brother added, trying to lean his head out the window to make contact with the drive-through operator, "Can I have a butt crack too?"

They exploded in laughter.

"So," I asked while we were driving away, "do either of you comedians even know what 'butt crack' means?"  They looked at each other with blank stares. 

"No idea," my 3-year old replied.

"'Butt' is a funny word," his accomplice added.  

My first son, who thinks his brothers' behavior is too infantile for his 8-year old sensibilities, just shook his head.

"Mom, they're being gross again," he hollered.  "Aren't you going to do something about them?"

Herein lies my dilemma.  Every once in a while, I engage in the wishful thinking that if I ignore the misbehavior in question, it will go away on its own.  I suppose it's lazy parenting on my part.  Especially when someone like my 8-year old calls me on it.  On the other hand, the last time I made an issue of a particular word, the boys thought it was even more uproariously clever to say it in public.  So they kept saying the word.  Repeatedly.

Before "butt crack", it was "penis." 

"What's wrong with saying 'penis'?" they asked a few months ago.  "Is it a bad word?"

"Well, no..." I replied, "but you probably shouldn't say it out loud in public."

"Why not?"

"Well, it's a word that describes a private part of your body," I stammered, hoping this line of questioning would somehow resolve on its own, "and you should talk about private things in private."

"Why is it private if everyone has a penis?" my 6-year old asked. I hesitated, wondering if I was going to regret where this conversation was headed.

"Not everyone has a penis."

"What?!? " my 3-year old gasped.

"Only boys have them, so girls might not necessarily appreciate you talking in front of them about penises."

"You don't have a penis?" he replied in utter disbelief.

"No," I answered slowly, "I'm not a boy... so therefore, I don't have a penis."  He thought about it for a moment.

"How do you pee?"

"You know," I continued, "we can talk about this more when you're older.  But for now, just try not to say the word 'penis' in public."

Once boys know there is something taboo about a word, then all of a sudden it becomes a riot to say it.  So the following day, as I was standing in the checkout line of our grocery store, my 3-year old blurted out: "Mommy, you must have a penis!"  He erupted in giggles.

I glanced nervously at the clerk bagging my groceries, and pretended not to hear him.  If I ignore him, I thought, maybe he will just stop talking on his own.  Wishful thinking.

"Mom," he repeated, even louder, "I said... you have a penis!" 

"We talked about this last night," I whispered, hushing him.  "You know perfectly well that I don't."

"Mommy doesn't have a penis!" he exclaimed with glee, as loudly as he could.  I could tell the clerk was also pretending not to notice now.  My son, on the other hand, knew he had a captive audience.  Rather pleased with himself, he repeated the word at least another five times before we finally made it out of the grocery store. 

Between "penis" and "butt crack", I suppose I prefer the latter.  But I'm still hoping this latest phase will blow over on its own, and the comedy duo will come up with some new material soon.  Maybe, just maybe... if I work on my poker face a bit more, they'll stop trying to embarrass me in public.

The Competitive Nature of Boys

One thing I've learned in parenting boys is that they thrive on competition.  These days, it seems that every activity in our house must include some competitive element for it to be worth the undertaking.  For example, this is a typical exchange between me and my boys: 

Me: "Does anyone want to help Mommy sort the laundry?"

First Son: "Let's make a race out of it, and the first to finish gets to call himself Grandmaster of the Laundry."

Second Son: "Do we earn points for every pair of socks that we match?"

Third Son: "Can we trade points for candy?"

The other night, I overheard my 8-year old instructing his brothers on the rules of what I like to call "Bathletics".  This is a nightly ritual that occurs when obedient children in other homes quietly take their baths.  In our house, however, my boys compete in an Olympic style event that involves holding your breath under water while trying to splash water far enough to hit the mirror over the vanity, and various other useless and time-consuming feats of athleticism.  My firstborn had created an elaborate scoring system to judge the performance of his brothers, with its own array of penalties as well as titles to be achieved. 

On this evening, the three older boys were sitting on the edge of the bathtub.  They had added a new event to their competition: Make a circle around the bathtub by scooting around the edge without using one's hands, while keeping both feet planted in the bath water.  One of them was timing the event with a stopwatch, and another was judging his brothers' form by calling out numbers.

"You've made a mess!" I cried, looking at the puddles of water on the tile.

"Mom, we're in the middle of something," my 8-year old informed me.

"I'm about to win!" my 6-year old exclaimed, scooting his bottom in a frantic fashion.

"Your form is all wrong!" his older brother shouted, "I'm giving you a '7' because you're using your hands!"

"Disqualify him!" my 3-year old chimed in.   

"How does he even know the word 'disqualify'?" I interjected. But by now, the three of them were so fervently embroiled in their own argument that you'd think they were senators investigating steroid use in major league baseball.

It was at that moment when I started to wonder whether all the chess tournaments, piano competitions and karate belt tests were having a negative impact on the boys.  After all, they have been immersed in extracurricular activities that involve the earning of points, titles, certificates, even colors.  So I turned to my resident expert on boy behavior, and asked my husband if I should be concerned.  He gave me the usual look of incredulity and replied matter of factly: "They're boys.  That's what boys do." 

I love my husband for always giving me the simplest answer (that also happens to be the correct one), because he knows I can complicate any parenting dilemma by overthinking.  Then I looked at my boys, who were now clearly having the time of their lives rating each other on their splash technique, and realized (for the nth time) that when raising boys, I need to stop thinking like a girl. 

The truth is, my boys become invigorated when there is a prize to be earned.  All this time, I had been afraid that applying standards and measurements would create an unhealthy atmosphere of competition between them, when competition, in fact, is what makes their lives interesting.  So the next time one of my boys asks if he and his brothers can race to finish their vegetables, I'll tell him, "First one can be called King of the Broccoli."