My Boy

I have a boy. Full blown, thorough-bred, all B-O-Y, boy. He likes trucks and cars and trains...and dirt and worms and bugs. He CRIES - I mean literally throws himself on the ground in fits - to go outside. It could be pouring down rain and he's asking "Pleeeeeaaassseeee, can I go outside???" If he can throw it, kick it, or make a mess in it, he's guaranteed to be smack dab in the middle of it. He wants to play in the dirt, throw the dirt, eat the dirt...and the dirtier the better.

For this girly girl former pageant queen turned mother of a son, this is a whole new ball game. My dad played the piano, not baseball. He took us girls shopping, not to the ball park. I have not an ounce of athleticism (unless you count the coordination of being a cheerleader). I have no idea how to play anything. At all. I was the last kid picked in gym class. Seriously, I still have a complex about it.

Regardless, I'm having to learn that coming home covered in dirt from head to toe is normal. I'm learning to let it go when a cute outfit is ruined by the infamous Virginia red mud. (Consignment shops and hand-me-downs are becoming my best friend as I search for "play clothes" that can get ruined.) I'm realizing that the endless supply of bruises and scrapes covering his little marred body are typical - and surprisingly mild compared to all the stunts he pulls. I'm having to react with 'joy' when he brings me a creepy crawly worm he dug out of the mud. Or somehow find the 'funny-ness' in the bodily noises and functions he thinks are hysterical. (The kid isn't 3 - is this seriously inbred in all males?!)

Boy, oh boy...my boy. My son. I can honestly say I love every speck of dirt. Every squirmy worm. Every truck and train. Every day outside. Every minute of being the mom to a boy. Of having a son. My boy.