A s a mother of four boys, I thought I had experienced darn near everything this side of the sandbox.
Our kids have thrown rocks, run with scissors, and been known to go outside without a sweater on chilly days.
Darn near makes you shudder to think.
Our outings were an adventure and a series of unfortunate events. If they weren’t into “this,” they were knocking down “that” and picking up speed as they headed for the breakables.
Oftentimes people would stare, some would scowl, and others would shake their heads in disgust.
Sometimes, as humiliation overcame me, a kind soul would appear out of nowhere. He or she would place a hand on my shoulder and say ever so gently, “Enjoy them while they’re still little.”
That made about as much sense to me as saying, “Enjoy the sting while you can still feel the pain.”
Yet, the thing about boys is that while you grow numb to some things, still others make you want to change your name and go into hiding.
Take, for instance, the day I watched as our 10-year-old sat on the bench at his baseball game and demonstrated for his teammates a disgusting sound created by blowing through a straw that was buried in his arm pit. Although I appreciated his ingenuity, I really wished he had used a different venue to showcase his brilliance.
As shameful as the moment was, I really cringed when the entire team showed up the next day with their own straws and entertained the infield with sounds reminiscent of a whoopee cushion convention.
Doesn’t exactly make a mother beam with pride, I’ll give you that. Back in the day, there was strength in numbers, and taking all four of our boys to a restaurant was risky business. Weekly Mass was a free-for-all, and when I wanted to take themto a decorating shop, I had to add a rider to our homeowner’s insurance.
Always, and without fail, some wellwisher would approach me during public appearances and say, “Oh, you’ve really got your hands full.”
Although I appreciated their astute observation, itwas all I could do to NOT reply with a curt “Gosh, ya think?”
But time has been good to me and moved along swiftly, just as the “Enjoy them while they’re young” folks had promised.
Now with two in college, the Clinch household is a bit quieter. Oh sure, we still get the occasional scream from the basement, the intermittent slug-fest and rousing bouts of “He hit me first!”
But at least no one is running with scissors.
I thought I had seen everything. But when our Lawrence asked if I could drive him and four of his cohorts to a girls’ state basketball tournament, I was as gullible as they come.
Turns out that in my 23 years of parenting boys, I hadn’t experienced it all.
I’ve been around these four cohorts before. I’ve fed them, entertained them and tripped over their sleeping bodies on more than one occasion.
Still, and I can’t believe I’m saying this: Nothing prepares a purse-toting woman for a weekend with five 17-year-old boys.
It started with the music, and I really did myself in when I forbid them to play country and western.
That left us with what my beloved spouse likes to call “Joe Jive,” with heart-stopping beats, head-banging rhythms, and enough bass to shake the rearview mirrors.
Then there was the descriptive toilet talk, the waving at passers-by, and this is no place to go into smells, so I’ll spare you the details and just leave that one for your imagination.
Let me just say that the accompanying sounds weren’t created by a straw in the arm pit.
Just sayin’.
When we stopped at a fast-food burger joint some hours later, I’m sure I looked like a haggard woman surrounded by five highenergy fountains of youth.
I filledmy pop cup with a shaky hand and sought out a quiet booth to collect myself. As I walked toward my destination, a gentleman stopped me and said, “Wow, you sure have your hands full!”
Darn near made me want to kick him in the shins and tell him to enjoy it while he could still feel the pain.
Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” You can reach her at [email protected].