Boys, Boys, Boys…

After literal weeks (lets be real…its been YEARS!) of visiting and revisiting this topic and jotting stuff down that I want to note and remember, I’ve come to the conclusion that this needs to be read as a kind of a sloppy research paper.  A study conducted with more emotion than say an actual scientific study.  My lab is our home.  I am one of the variables in the experiment.  I’m not yet sure what it is that I believe my findings will accomplish, but I have no choice but to dissect this thing.

A brief disclaimer…the following are observations concerning my own four boys.  Maybe you have 4 boys and they have a gentle, calm and relaxed demeanor.  If that is the case, then I would ask to perhaps read your own observations because they would be as foreign to me as the moon.

This is my creative way of announcing that never before in the history of our baby making, have we ever chosen to discover the gender of our unborn children before the birth…but this time we felt the need.  Mostly because we felt Iris deserved to know…if she needs to hunker down for more of the same around here or if perhaps, God was sending in a reinforcement.

DING DING DING! ROUND FIVE! It’ a boy.  I love boys.  Boys are fun and imaginative and energetic and I grew up with four brothers of my own.  Boys have a magic to them that is all their own.  I found that with all my boys, the cuddle time is limited…usually around age six they get a little too preoccupied to want to cuddle their mom.  A kiss on the cheek and a daily hug are as much as I can ask without seeming too needy.  They have taught me to savor my unabashed affectionate days with my little boys now.  Maxwell, our soon 2 year old, doesn’t get a break from my incessant cuddles.  Sometimes I catch the other boys watching us like it is a movie with subtitles and they can’t read fast enough to comprehend.  Once I was asked by one of them, “Were you like that with us Mom?”

“Are you kidding?! Yes!  Then everyone got TOO COOL for MOM CUDDLES.”

So we’ve established how fond I am of boys.  This fondness does not change the fact that they just might put me in an early grave.  My boys don’t walk through my home.  They run, like a herd of rhinoceros.  When my boys have just passed through, every area rug has been spun around and pictures have been knocked off the walls and furniture has been displaced to MAKE WAY! and the pillows are no longer on the sofa, rather they are EVERYWHERE.  Once I thought it would be a great idea after purchasing a “new-to-us” leather sofa off of Craigslist to also purchase a huge sheepskin rug that I found for a great deal on eBay, you know…a ten year makeover on the living room.  What I didn’t predict was that my living room would quickly become WRESTLEMANIA during all waking winter hours that the boys weren’t in school.  During the school day, Maxwell sits on that luscious rug and contently reads his board books…until the afternoon when it is overtaken by his animal brothers.  The rug summons forth some deep and ancient call to battle that can only be explained as primal instinct.  One evening while I sat on the floor with a laundry basket and matched the family’s socks, I watched in amazement as Chris took Maxwell’s waistband of his pants into his clenched teeth and drug Max around the rug like a father bear with his cub.  Max laughed in hysterics the entire time and all doubts were removed from my mind as to why it is that every time Chris walks out the door and Max is left with “the laundry lady” he has taken to fussing and crying and calling for his “DADA”.  “Sorry Max, I won’t be dragging you around the home with my teeth while I’m 7 months pregnant, you’ll have to wait until your ape of a father gets home…”

The other weekend, Chris’ brother and our sister in law took our three older boys on a sleepover extravaganza that included bowling and movies and a 20 dollar trip to the Goodwill!  They went away boys and came back MEN!  They deeply enjoyed this small getaway with their uncle and aunt and it is a memory that they will cherish forever. The kids had off school the day after this sleepover for Martin Luther King day and we were going to be hosting some friends that day.  Early in the morning I announced to the kids that our friends were coming over and that we all needed to spend a little time tidying our areas.  After about 20 minutes, I went upstairs to check on the boys’ progress on their room.  To my surprise, when I entered the room there were little signs of obedience and instead the boys were all standing and sitting around, all with a rather sullen disposition.  I could tell that I had walked in on a moment or conversation or something.  I halt.  “What’s up guys?”

After a brief glance at one another Micah answers, “We feel bad for Uncle Ben.”

I am utterly puzzled, “Uncle Ben?  Why?”

Flynn pipes up from the hammock in which he is lazily swinging, “He gave us a game that HE really liked.”

Owen is feeling all the feels, “Yeh, he really loved this one game mom, and he let us have it.”

I’m feeling amused.  I love that the boys got to experience their Uncle’s boyish enthusiasm for a game and I am also appreciating that Ben would love to know how badly these boys feel for him, without his game…just trying to make it through the day.

“Wow, so you guys were touched by Uncle Ben’s sacrifice?  You recognized that he really loved a game and instead of being selfish and keeping it for himself, he chose to give it to you guys?”

In unison they all agree “Yea.”

Micah announces, “I want to give it back to him.”

“YEA.” they all agree again.

I am smiling at their deliberation.  “So what game was it?”

Flynn explains, “It is this wooden game with a ball bearing called Labyrinth and Ben used to have it when he was young…”

“Well, that was really nice of him to give it to you guys.  I hope you appreciate it and take care of it.  Maybe if you think he would enjoy it more than you, it would be a good idea to give it back to him.  It’s up to you guys.”

I left their messy bedroom feeling less concerned about the mess and more intrigued by their tender hearts, considering poor Uncle Ben…with no Labyrinth to call his own.

My dear friend and her four kids came to visit and we had a delightful day filled with nothing at all…the best kind of day.  Nearing the end of our visit, I sensed that Flynn and Micah (my two oldest boys…10 and 8) were beginning to seem a bit bored.  I gave them some great ideas of things they could do to occupy their time until our friends left.

After our friends left, I laid Max down for his afternoon nap and wanted to get into a project…maybe some basement maintenance…but I wanted to get a handle on what my four other roommates were up to first.  The house was quiet so I headed out the front door.  There I found Iris (10) and her brother Owen (6) standing in the alley, shooting NERF arrows into the sky, nearly hitting the cars in the business parking lot directly in front of our home.  Add this to the list of reasons I love living in a parking lot.  When the kids have a weekday off school, that doesn’t mean the parking lot isn’t full of people’s vehicles that DONT have off that day.

“Sorry guys, no-one who works at the hospital wants you shooting NERF arrows anywhere near their cars…take it to the back yard or the park…” While our yard has been known to induce instant claustrophobia once more than 3 people occupy it, there is a small church owned park at the end of our block that serves as our “over flow yard”.  They headed in the direction of the park.

Now to find the other two boys.  I quietly scanned the second floor and whispered up the attic steps in an effort to NOT disturb freshly napping Max.  No Flynn.  No Micah.

I retreat back downstairs, imagining that they must have taken to the outdoors, perhaps the treehouse.  As I walk through the kitchen and my eyes peered through the window and into the treehouse, I had to adjust my gaze slightly to go beyond the back of our yard and into the neighbor’s yard behind our property, for that is where all the activity was taking place.

Our kids have never actually met the elderly man that lives behind us.  They have seen him walk around his yard a handful of times in the ten years that we have lived in our current home.  He has a pool that he has never taken the tarp off of and other than causing a mosquito epidemic every summer that forces us indoors, he hasn’t really made an impression on the kids one way or another.  They have spied on him from their treehouse when he mills about his yard and they have given him the code name “Mr. Bunion”.

There, beyond our chainlink fence…in Mr. Bunion’s pool…I spot my two sons.  They are each wielding an ax and are chopping at the ice in the tarped pool like they are being paid to do so (they are all into being paid lately…for everything…you know, even the stuff that I do all day every day…somehow they would like to be paid for these chores…)  I am flabbergasted at what I see.  Only one other time have I ever even heard about the boys hopping the fence to grab a ball or something and I made it clear that retrieving their possessions that accidentally end up in Mr. Bunions’ yard is the only reason to invade his property.

I stepped onto the back porch and from there I used my outside voice to loudly ask, “IS THIS A JOKE?!”

They both stopped mid swing and looked at me and then each other.

“GET OVER HERE!”  I actually didn’t even know how to handle this moment.  They are not bad kids.  They probably thought they were doing the guy a favor or something ridiculous like that, but I was pretty sure they understood that they weren’t supposed to be in his yard, even if all his pool ice desperately needed axed.

When they entered the backdoor I was actually speechless.  These were the same boys that I had just caught that morning feeling deeply saddened at their uncles’ sacrificial gift of The Labyrinth, right?  They are my straight A, never a discipline problem at school, responsible young men, right?

“I don’t even know what to say.  Go to your room.  I have to call your dad.”

Their heads hung in shame as they drug their feet through the house to their final destination.  I immediately got on the phone to Chris, who I hoped was in a favorable environment to talk during his workday.

He answered the phone right away.  “You’re not going to believe this, I was having some trouble locating Flynn and Micah and after checking the park and the entire house I went to the kitchen window to check the yard and treehouse and there I find them…in Mr. Bunions’ pool…with axes…chopping away at the ice like a couple of delinquents…”

Chris begins to laugh the kind of laugh that makes the whole world feel better, no matter what is going on.  I hear screw guns and hammering in the background.  I’m slightly puzzled by his laughter until he entertains me with his thought process…

“They’re just stupid boys! You know what you should have done…you should have knocked on the neighbor’s door and told him what they were doing and asked him to wait until you got back home so you could record their reaction when he came out yelling at them…THAT would have been great!”

He was right.  I saved them from the natural consequences of their actions, the way all mothers do…because our children’s behavior is a direct reflection on our parenting…isn’t it?  Chris helped me to recognize that while these boys navigate the turbulent seas of becoming men and learn how to manage all this raging testosterone, we may see more of this kind of off the wall “It seemed like a good idea at the time” kind of behavior.  Our only real plan is to keep them enrolled in sports and to try to train them to use tools for their intended purposes.

Nothing much came of the pool axing incident.  The boys spent a good amount of time in their room and when Chris got home we gave them a stern talking to.

Not many days later, I was sitting in the parking lot at school waiting for the kids to be dismissed.  Iris hopped in the van first.  She immediately alerted me that she passed the boys bathroom that day and saw Micah crying in there.  I am immediately needing to know why?  I can’t imagine what could have caused him to be upset enough to prompt a bathroom tear fest.  Micah can be quite a handful on the home front, but at school he is an assistant to his teacher and a superior honor roll student and a SELF-MANAGER every single month.  He has never let on that he has ever had trouble with any other students.

Owen enters the van next and then Micah.  By this point we are all aware that Micah was crying in the bathroom that day.

Iris wastes no time, “Hey Micah, why were you crying in the bathroom?  I saw you.”

“I got my clip moved down.”  Micah is dismally gazing out the window while he explains. He was referring to an inter-classroom disciplinary system that his teacher uses to keep order and reward students who consistently perform adequately.  Micah rarely, if ever…has his clip moved down.  He didn’t handle it so well.  When I asked him what caused this he said something about a bunch of kids talking when they shouldn’t have been and he was apparently grouped in with them.

A week later at parent-teacher conferences his teacher had only positive things to say.  However, there is a section of the conference itinerary that focuses on areas that your child could improve.  His teacher mentioned that Micah has trouble transitioning from reading his book (usually a graphic novel that he picks up if he has speedily completed the last assignment) to the next topic or assignment.  He explained that a few days earlier he had to ask Micah to put his book away TWICE, and so his clip was moved down.  He mentioned that Micah was very upset and had to go to the bathroom to calm down.  I told him that I heard about this incident but that Micah must have misunderstood what his infraction was.  His teacher has told me multiple times that he wished “asking kids to stop reading” were a problem for more of his students.  I left that conference understanding Micah a little more and feeling proud of him.  He deeply values what his teacher thinks of him and was having a considerable amount of trouble overcoming what it felt like to disappoint not only his teacher but also himself.  I would have cried in the bathroom too.

It is mid-day and Max and I are eating a sad yet nutritious lunch of applesauce and muesli and yogurt.  I’ve noticed since around 18 months (Max is currently 21 months) he has become much more vocal.  Sometimes I can make out what he is saying and it feels like a giant victory.  Other times he blabbers on and on and I feel awful because I know how intelligent he is and I know he has so much to say, but he just isn’t speaking our language yet.  Recently, before bedtime we were in the kitchen when he wouldn’t stop pointing to the cupboard in the corner of the kitchen, where we keep plates and bowls.  He became so incessant with his chattering and pointing that I finally scooped him up and placed him on the counter and asked him what he was pointing at.  He reached forward and opened the corner cabinet and pointed to the top shelf, a shelf that I rarely access which mostly houses some scarcely used baking dishes.  I held him up so he could see ALL the way to the back of the top shelf of the corner cabinet.  He seemed pleased.  I set him back down on the counter.

“Anything else you’d like to see while you’re up here?” I asked.

He scooted a few steps to the left and opened the tiny cabinet that holds our in-home pharmacy.  I held him up and he glanced deep into each shelf.  Then we moved onto the largest cupboard, one he sees into often enough, but not a real good look, not all the way up to the top shelf.  It probably took 5 minutes of my day, to show him the interiors of our few main kitchen cupboards, and he was pleased to hop down off that counter top and move on with his night.  I felt amazed at myself that finally, after 4 other children, I am realizing by the fifth that they are constantly communicating and they are very smart little people.  I couldn’t help but ponder how long the boy has stared at those cabinet doors opening and closing and has just wondered what could be in there, all the way at the top.  It must feel comparable to the top of a skyscraper for him.  He is constantly teaching me.

Having recently learned this lesson with Max, I took note as we ate our lunch where he wanted me to direct my attention.  He was pointing to the small yellow shelf in the kitchen that holds a large jar of coffee, a few jars of nuts and snacks, a cast iron bird shaped bottle opener, a brass paper weight…also in the shape of a bird, a sugar bowl…  I stood at the counter and moved my hand from one item to the next while he said “No.”  “No.”  “No.”  I was losing my patience when I came to the end of the shelf and my hand rested on a family photo that my best friend/photographer took of us when I was pregnant with Max.  He didn’t say “No.”…instead, the most darling little smile crept across his face.  I pulled the frame down and laid it before him.  He sat looking at that picture and pointing at each family member and talking about them for at least 15 minutes.  Once again, that photo has probably sat on that shelf for the better part of his life, always out of his reach.

So often I am too busy to stop and try to decipher what it is that my toddler is saying, but when I exhaust all my efforts in understanding what the little guy is saying, it is so worth it…so satisfying.

Days later…I am sitting with Iris at the small kitchen table doing a puzzle.  I managed to keep 6 separate appointments the day before, Iris started puking in the night, the kids had a day off school for parent/ teacher conferences, Chris was at his Friday morning nursing class and there wasn’t a lot that could motivate me to leave my home or care about getting dressed for that matter.  The boys were starting their kind of playful, soon to get ugly rough housing on the living room floor.  I called out once that “SOMEONE IS GOING TO GET HURT!” but my warning fell on deaf ears.  Not a minute passed before Max was screaming that scream that is silent at it’s most intense point.  He was clearly hurt in a way that not only felt bad but that had also taken him by surprise.  Flynn stands up and brings Max to me.  I ask for any available explanation from Flynn.

“Well, I was wrestling Micah and I ran into Max and knocked him over…”  Max is inconsolable and at one point Flynn expresses some annoyance that he isn’t calming down.

“Flynn, you just clobbered him.  No-one likes to be clobbered and he can cry if he wants to…”

On the slight defense Flynn asserts, “I don’t even know what clobber means!”

“Well, its when you’re going through your day minding your own business and someone’s entire body just collides with yours, invading your personal space and safety and  Max has just been clobbered.  What you guys don’t understand is that ALL DAY while you’re at school Max selects his favorite books and goes and sits on the rug and enjoys laughing at the pictures and turning the pages and he never has to think about defending himself against complete crazy people!  You are the one who needs to be more careful, or take your energy outside!” On this day I decided that sooner rather than later, our boys will be enrolled in wrestling…whether they like wearing a singlet or not (I would prefer that they despise it!)

A day or so earlier…Max is napping, Iris and Micah and Flynn are all “building something” in the basement and Owen emerges in the kitchen, having remembered that I previously mentioned making chocolate chip cookies.  Chris was at night class and I find the evenings that Chris has class to be particularly good opportunities to spend unique time with my kids.

I had almost reconsidered making the cookies, because there is always other stuff that needs my attention more than our confection supply, but when Owen entered the otherwise quiet kitchen and said “Can I help you make the cookies mom?” I said “Sure.”

I couldn’t remember the last time I was alone in my kitchen with just Owen. When did Owen last have my undivided attention?  I know he has a tendency to feel lost in a sea of children, all talking over each other, all needing attention, some more immediately than others.  I seized this opportunity for all it was.  Owen measured every ingredient and turned on the mixer and was able to tell everyone in the house that he made the cookies when we proudly presented them to the group.  At one point after he put the eggs away in the fridge and was walking back to his work station he stopped and said to me, “Hey mom, do you know what isn’t fair?”

“What?”

“Evens get to be broken in two…but then you know what IS fair?”

I’m looking at Owen now to try to follow where this is going…I’m sure these are the kinds of things he says all the time that get lost in the shuffle because they are said at the same time that a toddler is whining or a table needs set or a paper needs signed while scrambled eggs burn.

“Odds get to have a middle!”  He is smiling quite big while he shares this realization with me.

All this time I always thought, “Geez, those even numbers…always getting to be split right down the center, never a problem to divide, nice and orderly…”  But here its the odds that get to have THE MIDDLE!  Where are we without our middle?!  Whats an OREO without the center? (I’ve actually never had this thought…but thanks to Owen, I will never think of odds and evens the same again.)

“Wow Owen.  You really thought that one through.  Now we don’t have to feel bad for the odds anymore.”  My thoughtful Owen.

A few days later…it is Saturday.  Max has woken up in rare form, feverish and whiney.  Max is usually my happy, cuddley book worm in the morning.  This morning he only wanted held a specific way and if you had to stretch to reach your coffee or God forbid, get up and use the bathroom, he was going to let you know that he did not approve.  The three older boys were in high gear, all psyched up for their final basketball game.  Their two separate games were at noon that day, but here they were, all dressed and ready to go at 8 in the morning.

Anyone living in central Pennsylvania with a house full of children this winter can tell you that this has been a pretty sad winter so far.  No snow to enjoy or prompt school cancellations.  Only the occasional downpour, cause in the words of Chris…”You know, it is monsoon season here in PA.”  Well, this Saturday we woke up to big, fat snowflakes falling (and immediately melting) and we were all excited.  Micah was already red in the face from his several rounds of running in the snow in his basketball shorts.  He is my child who gets the most excited about snow.  I overheard him ask the other kids to go out and play with him, but due to the lack of accumulation, no one was interested.

By this time Chris had come downstairs and taken over in the kitchen as my arms were full of fever baby.  I decided to relocate the tiny rocking chair to the entryway so we could open the front door and watch the big, lazy flakes fall.  Max seemed soothed and I was too.  I felt a presence beside me and heard heavy breathing.  Following a disappointed sigh Micah lamented, “I wish I had a girl to throw snowballs at…”

I uncuddled Max just enough to turn and look at Micah, with that confused, furrowed brow that will one day be permanently stuck on my face and I said nothing.  There was nothing to say.  He is Micah.  And he needs a girl.  To throw snowballs at.

The next day, Sunday.  Our furnace is broken.  It has been broken since Friday and in an effort to save money we were avoiding calling a repairman until Monday.  The wood stove my father built us has always sufficiently heated our home, so other than hand washing the dishes in pots of boiled water, we were gonna be ok.  OK.  Not great, but ok.

Sometimes I feel like my life is a constant cycle of making a meal, cleaning up the meal and then immediately beginning to plan and prepare for the next meal…Oh, right.  That IS what my life is.

Flynn is my biggest fan when it comes to my cooking.  He lives for my cooking.  He is still swallowing his last bite of breakfast when he asks me what I am thinking of making for lunch.  Some days I find it quite endearing and other days I can’t help but let him have it, “I DON’T KNOW, COULD YOU JUST GIVE ME A MINUTE TO THINK ABOUT IT!”

For some reason on this Sunday morning, while I hand washed all the breakfast dishes that everyone had just cleared, I felt very peaceful.  Something about being forced to slow down and hand wash all the dishes that we normally just load in the dishwasher and forget about had me in a particular state of mind.  I also deeply enjoy watching the birds feeding out my kitchen window.  Flynn had just finished helping clear the table and was standing in the corner of the kitchen when he said, “You really do do a lot of work around here…like ALL the work.  Thanks Mom.”

I almost started crying.  I told him that I know that I don’t always have the best attitude about the work that never stops around our house, but that I have been trying to recognize that the dishes and the laundry and the shoes and the coats and the backpacks everywhere are evidence that my life is full of blessings.  I also expressed that because the work is SO much and it NEVER ENDS, it means all that much more when people do even small things, like try to remember to put their belongings in their rightful place or bring their dirty laundry downstairs so I don’t have to go searching for it.  I let him know how much I appreciated him recognizing and thanking me for the mundane labor I perform in the home everyday.

Friday morning.  The gang had off school the day before for their first snowday!  It was also the twins official 11th birthday (we celebrated the night before because of schedule conflicts the day of…) and a day off school was a nice way to spend it.  We were all feeling the joy of having a surprise day off in the middle of the school week and then having to go back to school, for one day, before the weekend.

We are dreary looking.  People just lounging around.  Micah has taken his familiar post laying in the middle of the living room floor, hands behind his head in his typical, “I can cause a little trouble from ANY location and ANY physical position” stance.  Max is shuffling by in his footy pajamas, that he will be wearing until after his first AND second breakfast, and he is halted by Micah’s outstretched leg.  Max quickly turns on Micah and lunges toward his hip-bone with teeth bared.  He bites Micah in the hip with his tiny, round, pearly whites, while exerting an aggressive cry.  My little Maxwell Gunther Krouse, his toddler teeth, attempting to pierce man-flesh.  It was so instinctual that I could not help but let Micah know that while I know Max is his own person, it almost seems as though Max’s way of relating to Micah is of a very specific kind.  Micah quickly darted his lower body out of the way of Max’s bite, giggling and amused.  I expressed that it isn’t OK for Micah to irritate Max just to amuse himself.  I used a lot more words than that, and I was also mostly yelling.  Something about watching one of my youngest children defend himself against one of my older children really strikes a chord in me.  I can’t help but get ranty when I witness negative conditioning taking place directly in front of me.  I constantly offer Micah other options, ways he can spend time with Max that will be pleasant and positive.  I feel defeated after now making my older child feel badly for the way he treated the younger.  Does the conditioning ever end?  Sometimes, I just have a little too much and maybe I let a kid really have it.  Then, after I drop the kids off at school, I cry the whole drive home and regret ever thinking for one second that I know what I’m doing with all these personalities and independent spirits and I feel presented with all their flaws and I own them at times, because I’ve helped to shape them.  And I just want to bite someone right in their hip!

Sometimes I think the hardest part of parenting a house full of rowdy, rammy, aggressive guys is what it does to ME.  I lose my calm.  Yoga breaths become a long lost figment of my imagination while I watch from my kitchen as one boy body slams the other in the living room.  Is my fate to just go crazy on this journey?  I have to believe that Chris and I balance each other out enough that these kids have a chance at having some nicely rounded qualities.

I am in the kitchen, post school-day doing my usual dinner prep.  Flynn and Micah are snacking at the kitchen table.  Flynn rounds the corner of the table and presents himself to the side of me so he may observe my reaction while he asks me a deeply pressing question,

“Mom, do you think that you could get expelled from school for threatening your BROTHER?”

Again, that confused, (I’m feeling comfortable enough to add “hideous” to the description at this point) furrowed brow creeps onto my face…

“I’m gonna guess the school would treat you like any other kids that were threatening each other…I don’t think it matters that you’re brothers…”

Flynn’s shoulders slink upward while he turns his grinning gaze to Micah, seated at the table…”LET’S DO IT!”

Micah laughs a ridiculous laugh that fully asserts “IM ALL IN!”

My brow has softened and I now boast to that lazy, dead faced stare that is most likely what someones’ face looks like after a car accident where they were drunk and they lived only because their body was so relaxed that it acted as a dummy and since none of their muscles tensed up on themselves (breaking their own bones) they made it out unscathed…

“Sure guys, let me know how that works out for you…also let me know where you will be living during the time that you are expelled from school…”

One of the perks to being the mother of good boys who try to think that they have the balls to be bad, is the constant bombardment of hypotheticals.  They are smart enough to always want to know what the outcome of some deeply stupid actions might be.  My boys are always asking me about “Joovy” and what happens there and how the kids are treated and what you have to do to go there.  I’m ready to send them in, for research purposes.

The day that we found out the gender of our unborn child, we were pretty nervous.  We were nervous first because my midwife said I was measuring a month ahead of my dates and she was able to read a heartbeat at multiple locations on the belly.  Having a strong history of twins in the family we waited with bated breath to find out if we were having one or two more kids.

Just one baby.  All types of emotions.  Immediately, disappointment.  I know the jubilance of twins.   It’s A LOT of work, but jubilant none the less.  After the disappointment subsided, relief.  WHAT WAS I THINKING!?  LIKE I COULD HANLDE TWINS RIGHT NOW!?

The technician told us right away that she could see we were having a boy.  Again, a lot of emotions.  I have forgotten what it’s like to have the dainty, princessy whirlwind of little girl in the house.  Iris begged us to paint her room pink for years, and by the time we got around to it, it was over.  SHE HATED PINK.  She was most likely just following in her mothers’ footsteps, I’m not the most feminine lady out there in the traditional sense.  Having grown up surrounded by four brothers myself, I had to hold onto every shred of my girlhood with a white knuckled death grip and even still, my Barbies were used for target practice.  Other than feeling extremely uneasy with sisters that are inseparably close and females that seem too friendly, I’ve turned out alright.

When the kids got home from school that afternoon we sat them all down on the sofa and broke the news.  The only reaction I can really remember was Iris’, because it was so dramatic.  She physically flung herself to the floor, and if she had been wearing a gown of sack cloth, she woulda ripped it!  I told her she could get her ears pierced, and she immediately reminded me that she is afraid of getting her ears pierced.  I told her I was sorry, that she was just going to be a tough old broad like her mother.  I told her it would make her stronger.  She wasn’t buying any of it.  Iris has never known her existence without boys.  She was born with her twin brother breathing down her neck and all that followed was more of the same.  She has really learned to roll with the punches and she definitely has thick skin…to the point that she can be a bit unable to relate to the mainstream girl.  But again, I think she’s gonna be alright.

When Chris told his parents that we would be having our fifth boy his father sent him this photograph of Great Great Great Great Great grandmother Martha Krouse with her 7 sons.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe that documents like this one should be presented to the bride-to-be several months before the wedding day to be thought over and upon and wrestled with and fully accepted…like, “Hey, this is a genetic possibility…FYI”  My decision to become Mrs. Krouse would have remained the same, but from the look on Martha’s face, I could have at least prepared myself for a future of breathing in mostly boy farts for the duration of my child rearing days.  Tell me she doesn’t look like she has seen some shit!  I can only hope to follow in Martha’s footsteps.  If even one of my sons ends up with a mustache of that caliber, I can die a satisfied mother.  And that waistline!  Damn gurl!

The months have whisked right by and in 4 short weeks we will be welcoming another strong Krouse male.  What a responsibility we have on our shoulders.

When this photo was developed some 5 years ago I can recall thinking “Oh, this will be a fun picture to recreate someday when the boys are big…”  Now I look at it and think “This will be a fun picture to recreate when the park has reinforced that beam with rebar and cemented it in at least 3 foundational points in the earth.”

In closing, I would like to include what I’ll call the best family picture I’ve gotten in the last two years…which is actually 2 crumby little polaroids that I’m holding together while trying to keep my dirty thumb nail (raw sourdough caked under it…) out of the pic…

These were taken the evening we celebrated the twins 11th birthday.  The things I love about this photo(s) include the drywall mud crusted to my hard working husbands’ tee shirt, who had a horrendous morning of flat tires and calling junk yards for parts and the stress of school work due by midnight.  I love Owen’s smile while he fakes being happy even though he was super jealous that Flynn got an iPod shuffle and he is now the only (older) brother without some personal jams. I love that Iris is wearing a shirt that she just changed into because Micah and Owen misunderstood my instructions to “silly string the twins after we sing happy birthday to them…” and instead did it ALL DURING THE HAPPY BIRTHDAY SONG and for some reason the boys also thought it would be a good idea to hide the 2 cans of silly string in the refrigerator prior to the “surprise”, which apparently changed the chemical composition of the stuff and that basically looked like Owen and Micah spraying Flynn and Iris with Isopropyl alcohol directly beside open flame while Iris quietly complained “It’s burning my skin…”  YEA! Happy Birthday!  I love the height difference between my two oldest children.  I love Micah and Owen’s ears.  I love that my husband is positioned in front of me so you can’t actually tell how hugely pregnant I am.  I love tired, red cheeked party planning helper Max, perched on his favorite guy’s side.  And I love that in a month, we get to add another baby boy to this wild ride.

This post would only be complete if I end with an announcement that yesterday I found two of the wiriest grey hairs known to human hair.  I’ve waited 33 years for my crown of glory, here goes!