Slugs and Snails and Puppy-Dogs' Tails

There are things about being a Mum of boys that only Mums with boys will understand. They are a unique breed, boys, and a bit of a foreign species sometimes to their female carers.

My first child, Zak, was 'Isabella' until my 20 week scan decided that that would not be a particularly strong start for him in life.  I was teaching full-time at that point and I swept through my Head of Department's lesson shouting "Isabella's a boy!" much to the bemusement of Year 12.  I was convinced the second time around that I was definitely having a girl as I had a whole host of pregnancy symptoms that I hadn't had with Zak, but again, at the 20 week scan, I was told that there was most definitely a willy.  The radiographer looked a little terrified at the pregnant woman cursing on the bed and the male-sperm-dominated husband cowering in the corner.  I feel bad even typing this - I wouldn't swap my boys for anything now.  However, I do sometimes wonder who is going to look after me, or talk to me even, in my dotage.  "Boys love their Mums", I've heard more time than I'd care to mention.  Very true I'm sure, but boys grow into men and men are really quite useless.  I'm working hard on my boys' future wives behalf at the moment to ensure they won't have to live with men that pee on the floor/leave toilet seats up/leave pants in inappropriate places - I hope they will repay me by ensuring my boys come and see me once in a while :-)

Boys need a daily airing otherwise all hell breaks loose.  Stu and I have frequently been the only parents in the park on the most ungodly days shivering through half an hour of play just so that the witching hour before tea-time isn't quite as horrific as it otherwise would be.  We have to stop and gaze in wonder at any number of snails and slugs on the way to school, marvelling at their slimeyness and the general mank coming out of their bums.  The boys can laugh uncontrollably for at least ten minutes if anyone says "pants" or "bottom"; hilarious, no really.  Then of course there was the infamous moment that my Facebook friends will remember when Zak asked during a Sunday lunch for twelve people, "Is that a poo on your plate Grandad?".


This morning, I was having a little chat with Sebi about a boy he hadn't got on very well with at pre-school last week.  I was telling him that if the boy wasn't very nice he should just play with somebody else and tell the teachers.  "Or you could kick him really hard on the bottom" said Zak.  I wonder which piece of advice would have stuck with Seb?


I think though that deep down my desire for a girl was unfounded.  I'm rubbish at plaiting hair, can't do a cartwheel to save my life and I'm not much of a shopper.  Maybe things are best the way they are and I'll be so addled on gin in my retirement home that I won't notice how often I'm visited, or not.