Of boys and falling down

The mother of boys has to be very fit. She needs to be fast and have quick reflexes, with enough mental stamina and explosive power in her arms and legs to get to the uncovered plugs before her crawling dumpling does. Or to skid fast enough to cushion the fall of a miscalculated jump, catch a vase that has just been shot off the shelf, or to simply pick her little boy up every time he falls. Because boys fall a lot. Physically and mentally.

And so it was, that at the tender young age of 45, I took up triathlon training. I had always been relatively fit, I had already trained for and run a marathon, worked out in the gym, dabbled with yoga and pilates and spinning, but this was serious s**t, with a coach and a training program that covered most of the hours of the day, most days of the week. There was no room for excuses, exceptions, justifications or pretenses. Here’s the program, shut up and do it.

And so it was that with a runny nose and a blocked ear (from the previous day’s swimming workout) I picked myself up early from bed and went running. Naturally, I was feeling very sorry for myself, I wanted to be in bed with my books and my box of soft tissues, not out here battling it on the streets of Beirut. I cursed myself, I cursed my coach, I cursed my boys and was thinking how perhaps this Christmas, as a way of getting back at them, I should teach them about the art of giving instead of receiving by donating some of their gif…

Then I fell.

Or more like thudded. Thumped. Clunked.

Crashed. Smacked. Clomped.

It wasn’t very elegant.

But whatever I did, I seem to have tripped over a piece of badly paved road and I found myself kissing the ground with a bloody nose, scraped knees and hands, a lot of pain and naturally, a bruised ego.

I think it was providence’s way for punishing me for feeling sorry for myself. But it went the extra step because I was still a mile away from home. With no money and no phone.

And that’s when the mental stamina needs to kick in.

I must have looked bad after my trudge home because it took my youngest only 20 seconds to realize something was wrong with me.

“I fell,” I whimpered.

He gave ma a quick reassurance hug before running around in a few circles and shooting off to grab cotton, disinfectant, ice and a towel, all neatly displayed on a tray. My middle one had by then got wind that I was hurt and, very un-teenage-like, also started fussing and looking for any sleeves we had for sprained knees, ankles and wrists. They fussed and swarmed around me with such tenderness and love and affection that I started making my Christmas list again.

After my shower and unending enquiries as to how I was feeling from all the boys in my household, I started tidying up the mess they had made while looking after me and thanking providence for allowing me to salute the street so intimately and being at the receiving end of so much tenderheartedness, compassion and care.

Tomorrow I may just fall off my bicycle.

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Of boys and noise

When I was a young girl, I used to be partially deaf in one ear. I didn’t know that of course, but everyone else did.

My siblings knew because they would whisper to me when I wasn’t looking and see how long it took to get my attention. Finally, my mother, having given up on my siblings’ rudimentary way of testing, confirmed the diagnosis in a dim and humid doctor’s clinic. I was ten years old.

My mother at the time, bless her, had no idea that I would eventually end up living with four boys and that being partially deaf in one ear may actually be a good thing.

Because living with boys as anyone will tell you, is noisy. Doors don’t close, they bang. They don’t unlock, they’re wrenched open. Conversations are not had, they’re shouted across rooms and corridors. My boys are teenagers now, so they’re quite hormonal and so there’s a lot of shouting and screaming going on.

Then there are the musical instruments of course. The piano, played only with the foot constantly to the pedal, and the bass. And the drums. The drums played without the silencing pads.

And the music that stays on long after the premises have been vacated. Music is always in the background.

Boys also like to watch noisy things: a football match with all the cacophony of the stadium, action movies with long car chases and noisy exhausts, war movies. All with the volume pitched high.

And then there’s Big Boy Number One, of course. My husband loves to watch replays of football matches he’s already seen a couple of times already. If his favored team had actually won, I get treated to replays and commentary on television, tablet, phone…Location doesn’t matter either: bathroom, kitchen, bedroom, living room…it all works. This doesn’t bother me, I have to admit, except when I’m trying to read or I’m concentrating on something else, happily and quietly in my bed, in which case the commentary becomes quite a distraction.

Especially if it’s in German.

(Neither my husband nor I speak or understand German.)

And here’s an observation I made the other day. Boys don’t notice when a sound is too high, only when it’s too low. My eldest son recently joined the school choir and we were, naturally, invited to watch his first concert. It was really great to go and watch his lips move.

“How did you like it?” he asked me hopefully at the end.

“I liked it a lot though I would have liked it even more if I had heard you,” I replied, “your father was complaining that he couldn’t hear you at all! You sing louder than that when you sing alone at home,” I tried, wanting to offer one positive-sounding comment at least.

“Yes well, we were asked to keep it soft and melodious,” he explained.

“Well maybe that’s the problem,” I said. “Next time keep it loud…and try singing in German.”

Of Boys and Temporospatial Difficulties

When it comes to any kind of time or space assessment, boys suck. The passage of time and distance between two places is totally arbitrary and changes according to the movement of the earth and the moon, circumstances, hormones, weather…who knows?
Two of the most blatant examples of temporospatial difficulty that boys exhibit are when they shout “Mooooooooommmmmmm” across three rooms, or when they decide to have an important conversation with you, from behind the shower door, even though you have explained, on numerous prior occasions that you cannot hear anything above the noise of the water (this might signal a comprehension problem that we will deal with later, alternatively you can refer to my post on hearing and listening.

Recently, I attended an exercise class where the trainer, a very sweet big boy, had particular difficulties with space and time assessment. He had arranged a circuit where we are supposed to spend a minute at each station and complete two circuits before we got to rest for two minutes and then doing the same thing again with another circuit. As we were 6, that would mean a total of 12 minutes for the first circuit, 12 minutes for the second and a 2-minute break, so a total of 26 minutes of intense exercise that would be accompanied by a 5-minute warm-up and a 5-minute cool down. A total 36 minutes to fit within a 1-hour session.

He didn’t manage. The whole session was an awkward 63 minutes long. Most of us participants completed 1.3 to 1.7 of the first circuit and 2.2 to 2.5 of the second circuit, spending 38 seconds at one station, 75 seconds on another…the whole thing was a total mishmash of time and space interwoven with shouts of “Go!”, “Stop!”, “Rest”, “Again”, intermittently. We came out sweaty, but we were not exactly sure what we did. Or why.
Another example of a space/time problem that I know my boys struggle with is messaging. My husband and I sent our boys to camp recently and had set up a family chat for that purpose. I don’t think I need to say much more than what is below.

Home, 9:36 PM: “How’s everybody doing?”
Home, 9:55 PM: “Hello?”

Camp, 11:06 PM: “Hello””We were not free”

Home, 11:06 PM: “OK, everything going well?”

Silence…s…s…s…s…s…s…s

But the best illustration has to be:
11:03 PM, 4,823km away: “Mom, can you tell Nik [his brother] and his friends to stop bothering me?”

Boys, you’ve got to love them. Because if you don’t, no one else will.

Of boys and grieving mothers

To every grieving mother today, I pray for you. To every woman whose heart has been savagely wrenched, I pray for you. 

I pray that you find solace, I pray that you find peace, I pray that you find acceptance.

To every grieving mother today, I think of you. To every woman whose heart has been irretrievably broken, I think of you. 

I think of your stabbing wound, I think of your incomprehension, I think of the unfairness you have been subjected to.

To every grieving mother today, I cry with you. To every woman whose core has been ripped to shreds, I cry with you.

I cry for your pain. I cry for your tears. I cry for your loss.

To every grieving mother today, I hope that we will never forget, I hope that we will never comply, I hope that we will never accept.

May the angels walk with you and may they always be by your side in your time of need.
May every hand in this world reach out to cradle you, may every arm around you offer you comfort.
May your child rest in peace.

May you one day dance again.

Of Boys and Ocarinas

An ocarina is an ancient wind musical instrument that sounds like a flute but isn’t. And that is exactly what happened with the ocarina that my eldest son, Big Boy Number Two, ordered. It sort of arrived but didn’t.

I’ll explain. But not too much as it gets confusing because there are too many foreign-sounding names like Zelda and Ocarina of time and Nintendo and Koji Kondo…In any case, suffice it to know that Zelda is quite the cult figure in the world of YouTuber musicians and any musician worth his clout should have an ocarina it seems.

When my son came to me and mentioned that he would like to buy an ocarina, at first I thought he was interested in breeding baby killer whales, but it turns out he just wanted to try another musical instrument. At first I was delighted because it meant I wouldn’t have to hear every single version of every single Zelda song (believe me there are many) on the piano anymore as the ocarina seemed small enough to fit in his room.

This having been said, having just bought a bass guitar complete with amplifier and lessons, I suggested maybe we share the cost of this particularly new contraption (I am also trying to teach certain money management skills and failing miserably but more on that later.)

Unhappy with the fact that he had to pay, he turned to his father, my husband, Big Boy Number One.

And the ocarina got lost in transit.

Now, the great thing about living with boys is that when something goes wrong, you, the woman become the most important person in their lives. And so it was that my son came to me and asked me to track and trace his lost ocarina.

I was busy at that particular moment and suggested to him that he go on the relevant website and type in the tracking number given to him by the seller. He looked at me blankly. I repeated, a little more slowly, but that didn’t seem to help much. I reiterated, getting a little more agitated by now. My agitation must have rubbed on him because he finally started jumping in his seat:
“I can’t do it, I can’t do it! I don’t know how! What are you saying?! Can’t you please just do it for me?!”

And he knew, at that point I think, what he had just done and his blank look suddenly turned to comprehension. His eyes pleaded with me but it was too late, mentally I was already composing my post. Still, I explained.

“You realize I am so blogging about this, right?”

In my defense, and in compensation for material, I did find the ocarina and it is now safely on its way home. Big Boy Number One is traveling and was not available for comment at the time of writing.

Of boys and marriage

Living with boys is essentially, living with doubt. “Are you sure? Really? Why?” Everything comes with a question: every request, every remark, every opinion.

“Darling, can you pass me the lettuce from the fridge, please?”

“Lettuce?”

“Yes. Lettuce. Please.”

“Why do you want lettuce?”

“To make a salad.”

“Are you sure you want to make a salad?”

Men doubt and question everything that women do. And we women, naturally, retaliate. We retaliate with our biggest weapon: we become mean. And then we blame the men.

“Hon, can you pass me that apple from the tree?”

“Why?”

“I want to eat it.”

“Are you sure you should be eating it?”

Scrunch!

“Yup, pretty sure Adam baby, pretty sure.”

“Why did you eat that?!”

“It’s your fault! Why did you pass it to me?”

Boys’ doubting and constant questioning would have been half a problem if they could at least take care of themselves on their own. Or if they made sense.

On a recent trip to Berlin to celebrate our twentieth wedding anniversary, my husband, Big Boy No. 1 and I, encountered very sunny weather and it wasn’t long before my big boy’s eyes started tearing and bothering him through his glasses.

Over breakfast I asked him why he didn’t bring his prescription sunglasses with him. His answer was that he didn’t think it would be so sunny.

“In July?” I asked.

“Well yes, I didn’t expect it to be so sunny in Berlin in July.”

“But why didn’t you bring them anyway? Why didn’t you think you would need them in July?” I persisted.

“Because it’s not the sun that bothers me. I don’t normally need them. It’s the sun that reflects off all these metallic surfaces that kills me, the kind of Northern European sun.”

“Like the sun in Berlin in July?”

We were getting annoyed with each other by then, him with me making fun of him and me with his inability to plan and pack properly. After a few minutes, my anger gave way to empathy.

“Here,” I said passing him my sunglasses across the table, “try these on for a while. See if they help.”

He took them, examined the lenses and promptly took out his lens wipe, cleaned them and gave them back to me.

“Here, they should be more pleasant to wear now.”

And that is why we have been married for twenty years and will probably stay married for the next twenty. I thanked him and thanked God for creating boys with such a short attention span and no rancour. So what’s a few questions here and there?

 

 

On living with 10-year olds

If you have a 10-year old go hug him now. If you don’t know where he is, go find him and hug him. If he’s not at home wait for him by the door and when he walks in hug him. If he’s sleeping go wake him up and hug him.

Hug him like your life depends on it.

Because it does.

Your 10-year old will never show you his love like he does now, will never want to play Monopoly with you like he does now, will never seek your approval like he does now, will never ask for your attention like he does now, will never cry when you travel like he does now, will never ask to sleep with you when he’s scared like he does now.

Very soon your 10-year old will no longer be 10.

His voice will break and his hair will grow. His shoulders will widen and so will his feet. His laughter will soon lose its innocence and so will he. He will always love you, but he will never love you like he loves you today.

So if you have a 10-year old, go hug him now. Hug him like your life depends on it because it does.

Hug him tight because your 10-year old will never be 10 again.

And if you have a girl you can hug her too. Hug her and pray her feet don’t grow too wide!