The Boys are Back in Town
I don't think I realized until my son came home for the summer how I'd
been literally drowning in estrogen this past school year. Well, maybe
not drowning. But certainly floating. As in, barely keeping my head
above water?
Seriously, I've been a woman surrounded by women. Two daughters, five pets (although two of these pets are biologically male, they've been neutered so long I'm fairly sure they no longer technically count as boys). And I broke up last fall with the man I'd been dating for over a year.
Gone were the days when my basement was filled with loud, writhing boys, wrestling for the xbox controller or the last handful of Doritos. Burping, farting, cursing, while upstairs my daughters and I rolled our eyes and shook our heads.
Not that there was ay shortage of eye-rollilng here in Hormonal Who-ville. It appears to be, for my daughters, an autonomic body function, akin to say, breathing. Eye-rolling and sighing and muttering under one's breath without actually moving, are the common responses when asked to do some monumental and entirely unreasonable task like, maybe taking out the trash or walking the dog.
And let's not forget the poor dog. She may not be male (or even female, if I'm sticking by my previous definition of neutered), but she'd clearly been jones-ing for a big dose of Boy Playtime, the kind where my son wrestles her to the family room floor, or chases her around downstairs until I command sharply "Enough," freezing both of them in their tracks.
Without my son here to break out the chips and sit down to ESPN, I'd been gorging on adolescent estrogen-soaked TV: Gossip Girl, One Tree Hill, 90210. I actually began looking forward to America's Next Top Model (Tyra-mail, anyone?).
You're wondering why I just didn't get up and leave the room. Go upstairs, open a newspaper. I could've, yes, but some bizarre powerful mothering enzyme kept me hovering close by, attempting to share my daughters' world (always a set up for heartbreak).
Possibly this is the same enzyme that caused me to memorize the names of every dinosaur so that I might be conversant with my raptor-loving little boy when he was three (to this day I can tell the difference between a pachycephalosaurus and a parasauralophus; try beating that for cocktail party banter). No doubt, the same substance that caused me to learn all the words to the soundtracks of Rent and Wicked when Daughter #1 was consumed by them, and to spend hours traipsing the muddy farm Daughter #2 worked at for years, when I would so much rather have been shopping for shoes.
But summer is here. I have survived the estrogen onslaught. My son came home in May so things are a little more balanced. There are boys at the dinner table once more, and several more gallons of milk and loaves of bread in my kitchen. There is more noise and arguing and even wrestling (and not just with the dog).
At the end of August he'll go back to school. But this year, D #1 will leave as well. It'll just be me and D #2 for this next school year, a whole new dynamic I can't even begin to fathom. I don't know what I'll be drowning in come September. But I sure hope someone remembers to throw me a life-line!
Seriously, I've been a woman surrounded by women. Two daughters, five pets (although two of these pets are biologically male, they've been neutered so long I'm fairly sure they no longer technically count as boys). And I broke up last fall with the man I'd been dating for over a year.
Gone were the days when my basement was filled with loud, writhing boys, wrestling for the xbox controller or the last handful of Doritos. Burping, farting, cursing, while upstairs my daughters and I rolled our eyes and shook our heads.
Not that there was ay shortage of eye-rollilng here in Hormonal Who-ville. It appears to be, for my daughters, an autonomic body function, akin to say, breathing. Eye-rolling and sighing and muttering under one's breath without actually moving, are the common responses when asked to do some monumental and entirely unreasonable task like, maybe taking out the trash or walking the dog.
And let's not forget the poor dog. She may not be male (or even female, if I'm sticking by my previous definition of neutered), but she'd clearly been jones-ing for a big dose of Boy Playtime, the kind where my son wrestles her to the family room floor, or chases her around downstairs until I command sharply "Enough," freezing both of them in their tracks.
Without my son here to break out the chips and sit down to ESPN, I'd been gorging on adolescent estrogen-soaked TV: Gossip Girl, One Tree Hill, 90210. I actually began looking forward to America's Next Top Model (Tyra-mail, anyone?).
You're wondering why I just didn't get up and leave the room. Go upstairs, open a newspaper. I could've, yes, but some bizarre powerful mothering enzyme kept me hovering close by, attempting to share my daughters' world (always a set up for heartbreak).
Possibly this is the same enzyme that caused me to memorize the names of every dinosaur so that I might be conversant with my raptor-loving little boy when he was three (to this day I can tell the difference between a pachycephalosaurus and a parasauralophus; try beating that for cocktail party banter). No doubt, the same substance that caused me to learn all the words to the soundtracks of Rent and Wicked when Daughter #1 was consumed by them, and to spend hours traipsing the muddy farm Daughter #2 worked at for years, when I would so much rather have been shopping for shoes.
But summer is here. I have survived the estrogen onslaught. My son came home in May so things are a little more balanced. There are boys at the dinner table once more, and several more gallons of milk and loaves of bread in my kitchen. There is more noise and arguing and even wrestling (and not just with the dog).
At the end of August he'll go back to school. But this year, D #1 will leave as well. It'll just be me and D #2 for this next school year, a whole new dynamic I can't even begin to fathom. I don't know what I'll be drowning in come September. But I sure hope someone remembers to throw me a life-line!
I'm in the exact opposite situation - I'm outnumbered by things with penises. I suppose it's fitting payback; for many years, Beloved and The Young One were the only males in a houseful, and I do mean FULL, of hormonal females.
I think I prefer a lot of males around - once they're fed, they're pretty docile.
You should submit this to the Spin Cycle; this weeks subject is "kids."
Posted by: Jan | June 30, 2009 at 06:46 PM
My 10year old daughter was farting. Normally we females would say 'tooting' or 'poofing' as I learned from my mom growing up.
But no, she was balls out farting...
And we were laughing so hard because SHE said it was like a 16 year old boy was living in her body.
Oh my. 10. I'm going to have my hands full.
Congratulations on your balanced table talk!
:-)
Posted by: Nancy McDonnell | June 30, 2009 at 07:25 PM
You speak my truth so very clearly! This is incredible "attempting to share my daughters' world (always a set up for heartbreak). "
My daughter #2 really came into her own and our relationship changed in so many ways when Daughter #1 went away to college. That part of it, you're gonna love!
Posted by: Lori | June 30, 2009 at 11:46 PM
Lu-HUV Wicked!
Poor John. I'll be singing this soundtrack at the top of my lungs this weekend when it's my turn to drive across state. :-)
He's surrounded by girls too. Although our terrier Harry is nuetered, he is unabashedly male. (Especially since he keeps humping our female beagle.)
Posted by: Sprite's Keeper | July 01, 2009 at 01:32 PM
D #2 will never forget this time that involves just the two of you.
Posted by: Jill | July 01, 2009 at 07:23 PM
Hi Maureen, Midlife Mama sent me! And I can tell that everything she says about you must be true. It's nice to meet you and your blog!
And good look with all of those hormones--whether they be male or female--they can all spell t-r-o-u-b-l-e!
Posted by: Jason | July 02, 2009 at 10:09 PM