Being a boymom (I have made it one word) has its advantages.
You never have to worry about buying matching tights and yelling at them to put them on. (Unless of course, they want to wear tights. No judgment.) You never have to worry about yelling at them for wearing too much blue eyeliner, even though everyone is wearing it. (Unless they want to wear eyeliner. No judgment.) You never have to worry about going shopping, which was the bane of my existence since my mother would rather spend time in a department store than with her favorite middle child. Fortunately, only one out of three enjoys going shopping. I feel I really dodged a bullet with that one. After all, a wise person once said, “God gives you what you can handle.” Had He given me three girls, I probably would have been committed to an insane asylum by now, for all of the grief that I gave my own mother. What comes around, goes around.
But with being a boymom comes a whole new vernacular. Words that you thought meant one thing, now mean something else. For example, and forgive me if this is crude, you can never, ever, as a boymom, yell to your son and his friends, “Put away those balls…” because for sure giggling will ensue. Yes, boys giggle.
And then we have the word brackets. When I think of a bracket, I think of the thousands of dollars that husband #1 and I spent on braces. Three boys in braces all at the same time is akin to feeding a small third world country.
Now that the month is March, the word “bracket” means something else entirely. “Have you filled out your bracket?” Who is still in your bracket?” “Is this the only bracket you have?” Really? Please help. Last I checked, I am still a girl, though, you wouldn’t know by how I behave — I have got to keep up, after all. The next few weeks involves lots of boys sitting on couches across this country watching college basketball. Or as I like to call it, “watching grass grow.”
My first thought is always that the boys playing the game look a lot older than my own son, who is in college. And I have seen these players up close. How? How have I seen them up close? Well, as a boymom, when you are asked to drive your sons to Providence, Rhode Island, for a basketball game, you say, “Yes, of course! I would love to drive you 3 1/2 hours each way to watch a game! That sounds like so much fun!! Let me get my binoculars and my extra strength bottle of Valium!” It was fun because I love my boys. And I love walking, and I just kept walking around the arena.
So here we are, and it is March Madness. The highlight of the NCAA — National Collegiate Athletic Association — not to be confused with National Cookie Association of America. (Of which I totally would be a member.) There are seeds, and not the kind you plant. There are upsets, there are “Fighting Irish,” who don’t actually fight and I am not sure if they are really Irish, but I am sure that they were eliminated and that messed up someone’s bracket somewhere. There are “Cyclones” and not the kind the weatherman tells you about. There are “Boilermakers,” which I think might be a drink, but are really players from Purdue. You get the point.
The next few weeks are all about the basketball. As opposed to the baseball, the football, the hockey puck, or the soccer ball. And as a boymom, I just smile and go along with it. I find the best looking player in each sport and decide that is the team I will follow. It is just as good a rationale as any, right?
For husband #1’s birthday, he surprised me with a trip to Orlando. I want to go to Sea World to see my friend Shamu, he wants to go to a spring training game. Here is the dilemma: If the boys were with us, I for sure would be sooo excited to go to the game (yawn), but as a terrible wife, do I really want to sit through a game? Of course, it’s his birthday. And I am hoping there will be delightful beverages that will mix well with my Valium from the Providence trip….
Banji Ganchrow is not really going to mix alcohol with Valium. She doesn’t take Valium. But she might mix alcohol with peanut M&Ms.