There was a time in my life, when I didn't give a flying fig about Star Wars. And now I dodge light sabers while making breakfast. I gently correct feuding brothers - "No, Honey, it's DarTH not DarK" - while running bath water. "Oh, look boys," I say with glee when the Williams-Sonoma catalog arrives, "Yoda cookie cutters!" Who have I become?
I like glitter nail polish and Barbie's pink hotel with the wind up elevator. I'm a Crystal Gayle kind of a gal. Gimme barrettes with ribbons and beads dripping off the ends, and I'm golden. For snack? How about some Strawberry Shortcake shortcake. Oh, what's that? You want me to come out and play? Sorry, I can't. I'm busy washing My Little Pony's mane with lavender shampoo.
You get the picture. And yet, last night I spent 12 minutes on Amazon.com ensuring I purchased the exact right tub of Jugs Balls (seriously, that's the name) for throwing practice grounders in the back yard. Instead of tossing the huge branch that fell in our driveway last night, to the curb - it's on the front stoop awaiting my son's arrival from school. Taped to it is a note that says, "This is for you. Love, Mom." I allow the fart machine to fart during play dates. I am the mother of boys.
And actually, I find that in mothering sons, I am all the more conscious of my girliness. No one else wants the pink plastic cup, it's all mine. No matter how dark the circles are under my eyes, I am the fairest one of all at our house. When we read Cinderella and she dons that baby blue party dress, my little one never fails to say, "Mommy, that's yike you." (We're working on hard "L"s). I imagine in a few years, I'll never have to open a single door for myself. And though I'm constantly at risk of falling into a left-the-seat-up toilet, I have been told that if a monster ever tries to eat me, I will be well protected by my sons. They have a whole plan involving light sabers.
And so, today on the 4th of May, I celebrate being the girly mother of boyish sons. And as I light this vanilla bean scented candle while drinking a strawberry-banana smoothie, I say, to all those Mothers of Little Boys, May the 4th be with you. (That killed at the breakfast table this morning).