It finally dawned on me. I live in a frat house.
I didn’t plan to live in a frat house. I didn’t want to live in a frat house. When I got married and bought beautiful furniture and excitedly brought home paint swatches and fabric samples, I wanted to live in a picture from Better Homes and Gardens.
Three boys, two houses, countless hacked up baseboards and dinged walls later, I realize that’s a virtual impossibility. I’ve come to grips with the scratches on my china cabinet and the dents on my fridge and my oven (FINE! I might have accidentally kicked the oven when I burned the chocolate chip cookies one pregnant night.) What? I had a craving!
My coffee tables are bare; my kitchen table, sadly naked. Most of the household accessories….have indefinitely retired to the basement. My tv stand is missing the doors because someone tried to hang from them, or on them, or…yeah, I actually don’t even know what he tried to do to them, but suffice it to say….the stand is now shabby chic minus the chic. Thanks fellas!
Then there’s the leather couches. When I say the leather is buttery….I don’t mean because it’s soft…I mean…they really might be buttery on any given night. Twice now (how dumb am I that there was even a second time?) I’ve left a stick of butter out on the kitchen counter to soften, only to find my two year old smearing it into the leather couch. They’re scratched and worn and are slowly becoming discolored in places (that we bought them off the cement floor at BJ’s Wholesale Club in conjunction with a pack of diapers, a 500 pound drum of pretzels and a 30 pack might exonerate the boys on that one…..)
I can deal with all that. I’m totally over the whole Better Homes and Gardens thing. That’s not real life. Hey, if I’m not gonna look like I walked off a photo shoot (please see, “THIS IS JUST NOT RIGHT”), why should my poor house be expected to? I know my home isn’t my own now, nor should it be. A home with kids should be lived in and be comfy–and hopefully still look relatively good, too. I want my house to be a fun place where my kids feel like they can bring their friends, where everyone feels welcome.
When I had my third ultrasound and realized I was having another boy, I knew my visions of pink and green sundresses were over. There would be no Princess Barbies or patent leather Mary Janes. With no pink on the horizon, I thought I prepared myself for a life of Transformers and Spiderman, mud pies and bugs (help). It hasn’t been hard—they’re adorable, easy to love, and so much fun….despite the occasional broken picture frame or culprit dancing on a table.
I can sort of wrap my head around this place turning into a little boys club. But I did NOT sign up to live in a frat house!
The other day, when my four year old said he had to go potty and I heard some major hooting and hollering coming from the bathroom, I realized you can never really be prepared. I’m really in for it.
My son was on the toilet while my two year old was stomping up and down (think Lucille Ball in the grape crushing episode) with his brother’s Power Ranger tighty whiteys on his head as they both laughed hysterically.
“YUCK!” I shrieked. “Get those off your head. Disgusting!” I admit it though, it was kinda funny, in a completely gross/ wrong Vince Vaughan/Will Ferrell movie kind of way.
But I had to ask myself, if this is what they’re doing NOW, what’s next? And what is this house going to look like when I have three teenage boys? And never mind look…what’s it gonna smell like? EEWW. Febreze…I’m so very sorry I trash talked you in my coupon post!
A girl’s gotta put her foot down sometimes. And today, was one of those times.
I was changing my two year olds diaper—something I’ve done more times then I want to know— and he started hollering to his brother in the other room, “Come see! Look at dis! Look at dis!!”
He was trying to show off his poop! He was proud…of his poop! (And if he’s that damn proud he can show it off in the toilet and not in a diaper, thank you very little.)
That….is just not right. All of sudden I have a frightening flashback from college. One of my housemates from college recounted a story to us girls that her boyfriend’s roommates at Harvard showed off their #2’s to each other sometimes! (At Harvard they do this. At Harvard! Don’t you kind of think you’ve done something right in the child rearing department if your kid gets into Harvard? But no! Guys are guys and if some of society’s most intelligent are doing this at Harvard then can’t I logically deduce all hope is lost?)
Yet, I still assumed I would never—could never— raise such a son! But he beat out the Harvard boys by about 20 years.
This just proves…..that my two year old is more advanced than a Harvard undergrad….or…that a Harvard undergrad has the maturity of a two year old… or….doing foul stuff when you’re a boy is just inherent!
I think I’m just gonna put all my cute accessories in a pink padded room in the basement….moms of boys….feel free to join!