Last year, I got married. Actually, God married me off, probably because I was spending so much time in his lap that he was ready for me to move out of the house and GET ON WITH it already (more on that story on the way…)
I went from living all by my lonesome with my wiener dog, my books and a modicum of pink, frilly serenity* to shouting to be heard above the din in a house full of menfolk. My husband has two boys (9 and 12.) They are rough. They are tumble. They are loud. They bang on stuff ALL. THE. TIME.
They are also very funny.
Manling the Younger: Steppy, can I have some blue juice, please?
Me: Sorry, Doodle, but we’re out.
M the Y: We’re OUT?? How?
Me: You guys drank it all yesterday.
M the Y: Darn our thirsty selves.
(They call me “Steppy.” Short for “stepmom,” which just didn’t fit. It took them about twelve seconds to come up with it. I’ve had overhearing strangers in restaurants tell me they wish they had thought of such a cool nickname for themselves when they got their kids.)
Oh, it’s not all thumb wars and kicking their butts at Guitar Hero (which is only tolerable because, well, I’m really good at it and that makes me cool.) They absolutely infuriate me lots of the time. Good thing for them that they are so blasted cute. Otherwise, their frustrating selves and their various boy parts would be SCATTERED all over the yard. (Did you know that boys who can do 1 ½ flips off the diving board, fold the City of Los Angeles out of origami paper, and stack two ladders and a chair to reach the second story roof to retrieve a football suddenly become tearfully weak and incompetent when trying to make a bed? I guess you did. Stop laughing at me, mommybloggers.)
Sometimes the only thing keeping me from throwing some dresses and Sparkling Lime Verbena bubble bath in the Steppymobile and heading for the nearest hotel is the vision I have of me and Hubbikins, years in the future, sitting across the table from the boys’ fiancés and telling them about the time they…(insert embarrassing story, complete with eyerolling, sighing and appreciative kisses on both my cheeks from grateful strapping young men.) It shouldn’t take more than 15 to 20 years to get there. **sighs and inserts earplugs**
*Okay, so I wasn’t really all that pink. Or frilly. But I didn’t have dirty dirt bike helmets on my kitchen table, Frisbees in my purse, or paperclip sailboats in my sink.
