No one told me about life with a boy.
I was unprepared for the incessant trips to the bathroom. We’re talking 3 trips in an hour while out in public. (And you think women are bad?!)
I was unprepared for the constant onslaught of fart jokes. Seriously, why such disgusting humor?
I didn’t realize they yelled “I HAVE TO POOP!!” out loud, in crowded public places, while laughing hysterically as you turn bright red and attempt to shush them.
No one told me their hands are always the dirtiest, covered with mud, snot, and Lord only knows what else.
No one told me that I’d be cursing at Legos and plastic cars each night while trying to tiptoe out of his bedroom.
There was no manual for how to handle the wild, restless spirit that keeps him bouncing off the walls 24/7.
I didn’t know I would regularly experience heart attacks at the sight of him climbing countertops to reach the top cabinets, and jumping from the kitchen island while wearing a Superman cape.
I also never knew that he would tug on my heart in a completely different way than his sister before him.
She commanded independence, only needing me for basic survival, whereas he needs to be within 5 feet of me to even be able to breathe.
He loves his mama with a fierce intensity. There’s a longing in his little heart to always be next to me, hugging, loving, feeding off of my undivided attention.
When his little hand reaches for mine, I swear he’s reaching for my heart.
There’s something special about those little boys and the way they love their mamas.
There’s something inherently sweet about the way they turn us into complete mush with just one look.
They’re a mess, it’s true. But what beautiful mess ❤
This story originally appeared on Four Norths in the South
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