A Little Serendipity, A Lot of Boys

There must be a lot of families with boys around here, because I keep driving by minivans with vanity plates that read "TWO BOYZ", "MY3SONS", "2GR8BOYS" and so on.  On Sunday, I found myself once again stopped at a red light behind such a car.  I turned to my husband and remarked that perhaps I should join this friendly contest of the vanity license plates.

"Why don't you get one that says '4GR8BOYS'?" he suggested.

"Or I could outdo all these moms and get a plate that says '5BOYS'," I muttered, mostly to myself.  "You being the fifth boy, of course."  In my mind, I thought: Now that would be simple and effective.  Not overly braggadocious.  But it would get the point across, and the point is: Muhahaha... I win! 

However, after some Googling, I discovered that the DMV has a search engine that allows you to check if your desired vanity plate is available.  And alas, "5BOYS" was already taken!

The following day, I kid you not, I pulled into a parking spot at Target... right next to a black minivan bearing the plate "5BOYS"!

"Oh my goodness," I exclaimed, "I don't believe it!"

"What's going on?" my oldest son asked.

"I've got to get a picture of this!" I screamed, giddy with excitement.

I bounded outside and pulled out my cell phone to snap a photo of the license plate.  My mind was whirling, and I felt a little light-headed from the euphoria of this rare sighting.  I casually peered inside the car and spotted a toddler seat, booster seat, and a few toys on the floor.  I considered whether to stake out the parking space to see what mother of all mothers had procured this coveted vanity plate.  I wondered if I'd be able to track down this queen bee inside the store.  Surely a woman with five boys buzzing around a shopping cart would not be hard to spot!

While I was still standing at the back of the minivan admiring the license plate, a woman with two boys approached the car.  She was in the middle of yelling at one of the boys when I lunged toward her and cried out, "Is this your car?"

She looked startled and replied tentatively, "Yes..."

Before she could write me off as a stalker, I launched into my story.  I have a vague recollection of using too many words and speaking too quickly, the way one might upon meeting a celebrity.  She laughed while I rambled.   After I finished, we exchanged a few stories about raising boys, and I felt as if I'd just met a kindred spirit.  She understood the husband bit completely, and joked that she could buy a new plate that read "6BOYS" so that I could have hers.  At the end of our conversation, she ordered her boys to help my youngest son out of the van, as if we were already old friends. 

As she got into her car, she turned to me and said, "You know, when you first ran over to me, I seriously thought you were going to tell me how dirty my car is!"

By now, we already understood one another so words weren't really necessary.  What mom of multiple boys has a minivan that isn't littered with empty juice boxes, week-old cracker crumbs, and a small collection of die-cast race cars?

After she drove off, I excitedly sent the photo to my husband.  Still flustered from the brief encounter, I smiled to myself and loaded my four boys into one shopping cart.  I can't recall having experienced many moments of serendipity like this before.

As for the vanity plate contest, I'm fresh out of ideas.  Either I have to settle for some variation of "4BOYS" (which incidentally is already taken), or maybe it's time to admit defeat. 

What's So Funny About "Downton Abbey"?

My idea of a good punchline is a zinger delivered by a certain Dowager Countess.  But alas, "Downton Abbey" wraps up its season on Sunday, and the rest of the family doesn't think "What is a weekend?" qualifies as side-splitting humor.  I'm the only one who will miss the aristocratic barbs that come from Dame Maggie Smith's stiff upper lip. 

Humor is a matter of personal taste.  In my 8-year old's opinion, there's nothing funny about "Downtown Abbey" (as he calls it) except the British accents.  Show him a Youtube video of a middle-aged guy tripping down a flight of stairs, however, and the kid will be rolling on the floor laughing.

Most boys I know prefer slapstick.  Ask any boy what is the funniest part of the movie "Elf".  Forget Buddy's hilarious comments about life in the North Pole or the deadpan quips by Bob Newhart and Zooey Deschanel.  Even the visual farce of seeing Will Ferrell in tights is lost on them.  Boys will tell you the comic highlight of the movie is when Buddy slurps down spaghetti with syrup, polishes off a liter of soda and delivers a 12-second belch at the dinner table.  To them, the burp alone is worth the price of admission.

The other day, I overheard my 6-year old and his friend discussing which "Alvin and the Chipmunks" movie to watch.

"I don't remember which one it is," one of them remarked.

"Is it the one where they go on vacation?" the other asked.

"No...."

"Is it the one with the girl chipmunks?"

"I don't know," he replied.  "I just want to watch the one where the guy gets a wedgie." 

"Oh, the wedgie!" the other exclaimed.  "The wedgie is my favorite part too!"

For those of you who haven't watched "The Squeakquel", the wedgie scene takes up maybe five seconds of screen time.  It is quickly followed by a scene in which one of the chipmunks receives a "swirly", i.e., gets his head dunked in a toilet.  And apparently, a movie that features both a wedgie and swirly scores big laughs with 6-year old boys.

Needless to say, there are no wedgies, swirlies or record-breaking belches in "Downton Abbey".  And according to male viewers under the age of 10 (at least those who reside in this household), the show is poorer for it.  To them, a series about a privileged family living in post-Edwardian England would be a lot funnier if the butler set booby traps around the castle and someone fell down the front staircase once in a while.  And if the Dowager Countess let out a loud burp during afternoon tea... surely that would be a show worth watching.

Now would be a perfect time to direct a snarky comment to the boys, delivered in my best Oxford English accent (not to be confused with a Yorkshire accent--how very middle class!), about vulgarity being no substitute for wit.  It would be so funny.  Hilarious, even. 

Unfortunately, no one except me would laugh.  

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.

Confession #7: How I Faked This Year's Christmas Photo

By the time I post this, my annual Christmas photo cards will be in the mail.  In the spirit of keeping it real for the five people who read this blog, however, I hereby confess that this year's family photo is a fake.  That's right.  After an hour of cajoling, bribing, pleading and yelling at the boys to give me one good pose with everyone smiling at the camera, I was left with only one option: Photoshop.  In the two hundred shots we took, every picture featured at least one member of the family squinting, grimacing, tripping, shoving, or otherwise not spreading holiday cheer.  Necessity being the mother of invention, this mother merged two different shots into one holly jolly pose to send to unsuspecting friends and family.

I am not proud of this forgery.  It was not so much clever as it was desperate.  You see, every year, the annual family photo session is the boys' dreaded event of the pre-holiday season. Perhaps if I had given birth to four girls, I might have produced children who enjoyed donning formal attire and striking glamorous poses for a family portrait worthy of adulations, tears and followers on Pinterest.  With four boys, however, a successful photo session is simply one in which no one is sucker punched.

In order to understand the challenges of taking photos of my boys, I present a random sampling of what I usually capture on film after the phrase "smile for the camera" is uttered. 

Lest you think I'm making this up, here is another set of vacation photos sabotaged by my boys:

I have literally hundreds of photos like these.  They are not products of a parent prompting, "Come on, boys, let's make some silly faces!"  No, these are actual shots of my offspring refusing outright to give me one decent smile.  These pictures are only good for one thing: making graphics for my blog.

So, here is a rundown of the morning we attempted to have our family photo taken for the annual Christmas card.  

9:00 a.m.  Begin dressing four boys in coordinating outfits.  Field indignant questions from older two sons on why they have to wear "fancy sweaters" instead of rumpled t-shirts they slept in overnight. 

9:15 a.m.  Search house frantically to find matching shoes for the baby.  Ignore reasonable requests from husband to calm down ("He doesn't walk yet, so why does he need to wear shoes?  Who's going to look at his feet anyway?").

9:30 a.m.  Chase boys around house in futile attempt to apply hair gel.  Field additional questions from sons on why they have to comb their hair anyway.

9:40 a.m.  Locate pair of matching shoes that are unfortunately two sizes too large for baby.  Accept defeat and vaguely nod to voice of reason, i.e. husband, who mutters for the third time: "Trust me, no one's going to notice." 

 

9:55 a.m.  Swipe hair gel in boys' hair as they run out the door.

10:00 a.m.  Attempt initial shots at first choice of location.  Listen to repeated complaining from boys about the sun being in their eyes.  Ignore melodramatic demands to be provided sunglasses to wear in photo.  Realize that one of baby's ill-fitting shoes must have fallen off his foot on the way to photo location.

10:10 a.m.  Move to a shady location after prolonged complaints about the sun.  Attempt further efforts to recreate saccharine "hugging family" pose pinned last week from Pinterest.  Efforts are derailed when oldest son begins to climb "hugging family" like a tree trunk.

10:15 a.m. Baby and 4-year old begin odd combination of yelling, laughing and crying in sync.  Take 15 minute break for younger sons to calm down.  Upon realizing opportunity for freedom from onerous family obligation, older sons use breaktime to climb trees.

10:30 a.m.  Resume phototaking attempts.  Baby begins grabbing my nose and poking fingers into my nostrils.

10:45 a.m.  Take second break and attempt discussion with baby on the inappropriateness of sticking fingers into other people's orifices.  During fruitless negotiation, boys quickly become bored and resume climbing trees.

10:55 a.m.  Baby falls asleep.  After series of shots with baby's face turned away in sleep position, photographer (my ever-patient sister) asks if we want to try again next weekend.  Husband and I look at each other, glance at our boys hanging from tree branches, and shake our heads "no" at the same time.  Photo session is officially canned.

Missing and Broken Parts

I have a box in my storage closet labeled "Missing and Broken Parts."  It contains knobs, handles, and various other household items that may (or may not) be fixed, reattached or salvaged in the elusive "someday"... when I have the time.

I had forgotten all about the "Missing and Broken" box, until last week when the boys "accidentally" steered a remote control helicopter right into the crystal chandelier that hangs in our foyer.  The little helicopter dislodged a large crystal, which swiftly plummeted two stories and shattered on the ground below.  The crystal splintered off into tiny shards too numerous to count.  Unfit for residence in the "Missing and Broken" box, we swept and vacuumed up the remnants.

Lately, quite a lot has gone missing and broken around here.  The chandelier was only the latest casualty in a long line of dings, dents, scratches, tears, breaks, holes, and drywall damage that have become commonplace in a house with four rowdy boys.  Exhibit A is the leather bench that now has an unsightly, grapefruit-sized milk stain on the seat, after a sippy cup was left overnight with the cap loosened.  (Side note: What is the deal with milk and leather not mixing well? I mean, don't they both come from cows?)  Composite Exhibit B is not one, but six doors in the house, all of which have come unhinged after the boys spent the last year swinging from the handles like monkeys on a jungle gym.  Exhibit C is the minivan, for which I recently paid $200 to remove a glow stick that had been jammed into... well, never mind where. (During this repair, I was informed that it would cost another $300 to replace the sunshade that was ripped in half by my 6-year old.  This latter repair will have to wait until we deposit more change into the Raising Boys Insurance Fund.)

And don't get me started on the things that go missing around here.  The surest way to lose something of value is to share your home with a band of rogues aged eight years and under.  I once spent an hour looking frantically for missing car keys, only to locate them in the bottom compartment of the freezer, right next to the frozen pizza.  What must I have been thinking?  After all, the freezer is a patently obvious place to store one's car keys... if you're two feet tall.

So, after some contemplation, I realized there are two things I can do about the escalating costs of raising boys in this household.  First, I can train the boys to become bandits and recoup the value of the things they break around here.  After all, they would make excellent pickpockets.  They have a natural ability to create distractions by the whirlwind of energy that accompanies them.  They are small and wiry, and can deftly shimmy into crawl spaces before you realize they've disappeared out of your line of sight.  And they have a penchant for storing their treasures low near the ground, escaping a grownup's normal range of vision.  (After all, didn't the narrator in "The Shawshank Redemption" say: "I mean, seriously, how often do you really look at a man's shoes?"  Apparently, the same thing goes for the bottom drawer of the freezer.)

Okay, I'm just kidding.  Well, sort of.  Before you cry "Fagin!", here's my second idea: I can enroll the boys in courses in basic carpentry, plumbing and maybe even HVAC repair at the local technical college; and then I can start employing them for free instead of hiring licensed professionals to clean up their messes.  Last time I checked, the Fair Labor Standards Act is okay with this arrangement: It's not illegal child labor if Mom's the boss.

But, alas, I opted for a third choice.  I took my "Missing and Broken" box from the storage closet, took five minutes to say goodbye, and threw its contents away.  For the most part, I had completely forgotten all about the little things I had stored up over the years: tassels torn from upholstered chairs by baby fingers; finials broken off ceramic lamps by flying Nerf darts; and pieces of wooden baseboard trim knocked loose by remote control cars.  I had been so busy raising my band of highly destructive but happy ragamuffins to remember all those forgotten segments.  After all, there really was nothing broken and missing in all the important parts of my life that mattered anyway.