I’m sure it’s extremely annoying to hear Hannah Montana say she is going to save the world for the millionth time, but least I can relate to girly stuff. After becoming the mother of two boys, I’ve soon discovered that there are certain things I don’t get. This verse of an Offspring song, Come Out And Play, sums it up:
Hey—man you talking back to me?
Take him out
You gotta keep ’em separated.
Most days I anxiously wait for Ethan to ask James, “You want to wrestle?” What starts out as a playful tussle turns into a free for all. It doesn’t stop until I yell, “Time Out! You, family room! You, kitchen—and I mean NOW!”
You would think that getting the crap beat out of him by his big brother would make James choose a different activity, like play dough or trains. But as soon as he catches his breath, he hurdles himself headlong into Ethan, vainly trying to knock him over. I guess that’s because, according to James’ preschool teacher, boys learn to “communicate” with each other through physical interaction.
Whatever the theory, after 30 minutes refereeing, my left eyelid starts twitching and I begin counting down the seconds until it’s appropriate to have a glass of wine.
Leave it to a man to find a better way to deal with all this testosterone-fueled aggression. My husband recently came up with this ingenious game for the boys to play. One stands at the top of the stairs and rolls a ball down to the other, who tries to catch it with a garbage can. Turn-taking, hand-eye coordination, gross-motor skills—it’s all there. Has he been watching Noggin between client meetings at work?
It irks me a little that I didn’t think of the game. But, no matter. On days when balls whiz past my head, and my living room has turned into an impromptu wrestling ring, I'll take all the help I can get. Right, Molly?