Boys will be boys

Boys. I have two of them. Allan, the ten year old, and William, who is heading towards four. They are the source of the greying hairs I see reflected back from my mirror. I have been trying to read Bringing Up Boys by Dr. James Dobson to try to understand why my guys do the things they do. However, they usually do something that interrupts my reading.

I admire women who have had sons only: my husband's paternal grandmother (4), Dana (3), Rachel (5), and Suzanne (5). I have two girls to help balance it out a little, but they are sandwiched between the two boys and have had plenty of time and opportunity to learn about tree climbing and catching toads and frogs among other things. So far the girls haven't joined in some of the more, shall we say, adventuresome activities?

Don't get me wrong. I love my boys. They are caring and considerate. They can also be utterly obnoxious. Especially to their sisters. I feel so proud when I see Allan -- and William on occasion -- hold doors open for people or help carry things or pick up something that someone has dropped. But this is also offset by the times when they are in such a hurry to do and be that they knock someone down.

I grew up sugar and spice and everything nice, but my daily life is snips and snails and puppy dog tails. I have learned to accept and expect smells and sounds that I didn't grow up with as one of three girls. And I wouldn't have it any other way.