In My Closet


I’ll be in my closet, if anybody needs me. I whispered this inside of my head as I walked out of the kitchen. I did not dare mention it to the three wrestling boys in the family room. I just quietly snuck upstairs. I sat at dinner not talking and just being an overall big pouty mama. Everything was “boy” today. Or so it seemed. There was the normal wrestling, punching, dodge ball throwing, and hockey playing, but there were extra “all boy” triggers. Like earlier, when Colby tried to take a sip of his puke green smoothie with his boxing gloves on. It didn’t work out so well. That Hulk-colored muscle smoothie spilled all over him and all over the kitchen floor. Why does a little spill always look like a massive amount of mess on the floor? How did all of that come out of that small cup?

“You can’t try to drink with your boxing gloves on.”

Yep. I said that. The sad thing is that I’m pretty sure that I have said that before. There are just some nights where I tap out. I can’t endure the constantly moving all-boy craziness. And I just want to cry a little. Or eat a salad. Or paint my toenails. I don’t really want to take a bath, but it seems like I should want to take a bubble bath with a glass of whine. Errr, wine. Flash backs of the day fill my head, which most likely resemble every other day that I genuinely love spending with all boys. Today, I need a sub. A daughter sub. She would need to get a long well with me, for the moment. No sassiness. We would maybe do the dishes together and talk about girly stuff.

I just can’t step on or kick another hot wheel or relocate any more action figures. Or go into another bathroom that smells like straight-up urine. I really need those smoke detector water sprinklers in all of my bathrooms. Why didn’t some all boy mom give me those as a shower gift? Except maybe they could also shoot out some cleaning product. I could just flip the switch and those urine-infested floors, walls, and even the weird back of the toilet area would magically be cleaned. Why is it so hard to focus on the toilet and get the pee in there? I do it every time. 100% of my pee goes into the toilet. Always. I guess I am trying to brag a little. I get distracted all the time, just not in the middle of peeing.

I know that I’m being downright moody. How ironic. And no fun to be around. Even hypersensitive perhaps. It happens pretty rarely. I occasionally let myself mope about in the mother of all boys reality. I really do think I make a decent boy mom, almost all of the time. Afterall, I’ve always been a tomboy. Groups of women generally freak me out. Unless, it’s a basketball team or something similar. But tonight, I think I would gladly play with some Barbies here in my closet. Maybe even with some sorority girls. I would take a pass on my normal beer and sip on a fruity martini in a fancy glass. Where is my closet bartender? Once I clean up this closet and turn it into “Fancytown,” these rare pity party occasions are going to be off the hook. Or is it chain? I know that I’m gender stereotyping but it actually feels pretty helpful. I’m starting to annoy myself a little. I would like some chocolate, too, though, while I am at it.

I don’t think those three little life-balls are going to put themselves to bed. I think their dad sensed that I needed some time alone. In my closet. He’s got them, he may have even talked to them gently and said something like, “Your mom needs you to really love on her.  Could you guys not argue, not wrestle, not spill drinks, not hit her in the head with a toy, not punch her, not pee on the walls…..just for the next thirty minutes?” That imaginary dad pep talk is enough to help me get off of my closet floor. And sneak back downstairs to those quick-to-forgive, quick-to-love, quick-to-hug, quick-to-let me know how much they love me boys. Oh, man. All boys.

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