My first indication that my dreams of ballet recitals and Barbies would at least be temporarily forgotten was during an utlrasound where I watched "Baby A" (Hudson) plant a solid kick right to "Baby B" 's head. Their wrestling has since continued to evolve.
Nary a day goes by where I don't have the joy of witnessing a dozen wrestling matches. In fact, as I write this, Hudson and Corbin are watching Dinosaur Train while simultaneously headlocking each other on a five minute rotation. They are rough with each other; they pull hair, sit on each other, and tug on limbs. And the wrestling has no limits--in the shopping cart, in the check-out line at Target, during Easter pictures, at church. It is, quite simply, their love language. There is no stopping it.
But some people don't understand the joy my boys have in taking down each other. Case in point:
Naive person witnessing the boys' wrestle: "Um,should they be doing that? Might someone get hurt?"
Me: "Yes, one or both will probably get hurt, scream, and cry. Boys, try not to get really hurt! Our health insurance is not what it used to be. And remember the rule--no wrestling on my couch, just on the floor or ground!"
Ben recently heard on NPR from an "expert" who said it's quite beneficial for mothers to roughhouse with their boys. And since NPR is full of know-it-all yuppies, it must be true. So now I'm getting tackled, sat on, and pushed all for good parenting and for the love of my boys. And this is why I once dreamed about ponies, princesses, and puffy dresses.
When I'm not refereeing or participating in wrestling competitions, I can be found scrubbing bleach all around the bathroom floor. Due to the "who can pee the fastest races" and "let's make our pee pee cross in the potty" fun, not much pee actually ends up in the commode. I feel like I need a hazmat suit every time I enter the boys' bathroom. Which is why summer is my favorite season ever, at least for the next 15 years.
My neighbors probably roll their eyes when they hear, yet again, my voice echoing, "BOYS! Go pee in the woods before coming back inside! We have people coming over, and I don't feel like cleaning up your mess again!" The boys have scarred many a young female house guest with their quick drop of drawers and long range shooting practice. Hudson and Corbin have clearly marked their territory over the whole premises which is the only conceivable reason why the deer have yet to pester our garden. Job well done, boys.
No doubt, my boys have changed me. I can no longer drive down the road without getting giddy with excitement when I see construction equipment and exclaim, "Did you see that excavator, Hudson?!" And yes, my vocabulary has expanded; surprisingly, they don't teach you the definition of "excavator" in AP English. I have learned to laugh at their peeing contests and be calm as I explain for the umpteenth time that peeing on each other while showering is neither okay nor a laughing matter.
And now we have a darling, sweet girl thrown in the boy-centered mix. A petite princess who wiggles and squirms so much when I paint her nails that my bathroom is now accented in pink. A little angel who has recently taken to walking around the house growling like a grizzly bear. A precious cupcake who sees her brothers headlocked in a brawl and jumps right in with a shrill giggle. Be careful what you wish for . . .
Three weeks old: The gnawing face plant
Six weeks old: Face plant continues (apparently I didn't feed Hudson enough)
Ten months old: The takedown
