The True Joy of Boys

In the continuing story of being the Mother of a Son…I’ve deleted 900 songs from his playlist, put his cellular through the wash (and the dryer), cheered for him at football games and cried when he was wheeled into the recovery room.  For every smelly hockey bag, for every sports sock tucked in between the cushions of the couch.  For every time he’s “forgotten” to cut the grass, brought home the car “on empty”.  For each time I’ve been annoyed, upset or just down right angry… there’s been a time he’s helped his grammas, taken time for a child, humoured me my nagging, carted in the groceries without being asked, and helped me see the world through eyes I’d never understood.  Being the Mother of a Son means learning how to do lay ups, remembering that tidy doesn’t always matter.  It means that sometimes what I’ve grown up to believe is really important:  making the  bed everyday; matching the towels-  simply doesn’t matter if the team is heading out to a tournament at 5:00 a.m.
For every time I’ve lamented the week’s worth of food that’s gone in two days; the rap music playing “too” loud; the mess on the kitchen counter, my heart has been warmed by a boy-child who would rather coach a basketball team than go to the mall; would make time to push his grandma’s wheelchair up a hill so she can see the river than take time to play with eyeshadow and lip gloss at a sleepover party.

It’s a foreign world most days, but I am a happy citizen of it.  Lucky for me, I’m the Mother of a Son.

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