My View

Julie Moore: In my house, boys rule

May 28, 2013 

When I discovered at age 41 that I was growing a child in my belly, I was sure it was a girl. I’m not sure where this gut feeling came from, but I could not have been more wrong. At one of the ultrasounds – I’m not sure how many weeks pregnant I was – the doctor drew an arrow at the proof that I most assuredly was not carrying a girl and wrote in all caps, BOY, on the film.

I’m sure my husband’s chest and head were swelling with pride and pleasure, but in all honesty, I was kinda bummed – and for the simple reason that I wanted to dress a girl: frilly dresses, pink hair bows, black tights and little tiny kilts. Plus I know girls. I am one. In retrospect I was glad that I had let the doctor tell us the sex of our baby, because it gave me time to fall in love with the idea of having a boy. Although it should have been a no-brainer, because even though I have some really great girl friends, what I really love is boys. I have always preferred the company of boys. Boys are awesome!

And this boy, in particular, the one that popped out of my crazy big belly, was the most awesome boy I’d ever met. I even had fun dressing him when he was little. Little jeans and rugby shirts, jeans with tiny black T-shirts and baby Chuck Taylors. Every year since his debut has been a sheer delight but also a learning experience.

Since I grew up in a house with two brothers – even though our home was rather genteel – I’m thinking that I should have known what to expect from living in a house with two guys. For some reason, though, I was totally unprepared. It’s not just that our home is full of army men and legos, or the depletion of our Band-Aid stock, or that the amount of dirt and mud tracked in could raise a crop. No, it’s not any of those things – it’s the… um… humor.

You know how you can make fart noises by cupping your hand under your armpit and flapping the other elbow-bent arm? Well, my brother the preppy accountant could do that with nearly every part of his body – standard armpit, elbow pit, knee pits or even just his palms! I have fond memories of him flopping down on the playroom couch, rolling onto his back and reeling off a series of blrrppppppsssss by flapping his legs over his cupped hands. I’m sure I didn’t describe that correctly, but I’m hoping you’ll get the idea.

Anyway, all that is to say, I guess those memories should have readied me for how it is to live in a house of dudes. That is, rife with scatological humor. Want to make my kid (or my husband, for that matter) laugh? Insert into any conversation a reference to body waste or bodily functions, sulfurous odors, release of gas, or just general reference to a person’s hindquarters, and you will have him rolling on the floor, unable to breathe.

This isn’t the only way to make him laugh – he’s also big into puns, funny faces and voices, “Gilligan’s Island,” and Peewee Herman, who he declared to be “funnier than Gilligan” – but it’s absolutely the shortest guaranteed route to that destination.

I know I am supposed to be the mature one, being the mom and all, but I actually have a hard time resisting the impulse to make that gorgeous cascade of giggles pour out of his mouth. It’s just too tempting to slide in a butt joke or poo reference. Is that wrong? I’m serious – could a child development expert chime in here? Should I be chastising him for doing what comes naturally to a young lad?

I hope not, because in our house we have a fully developed storehouse of “toot lore” to play on and build up at every given chance. And in case you’re wondering, it is none other than I who have the reputation of producing the largest amount, and most aromatic of gaseous emissions. I will say in my defense that this is just hearsay, and not in any way accurate. It’s actually just the guys ganging up on me. Like guys do. I’ll get used to it someday, I guess…

Julie Moore can be reached at sweetwilliamdesign@me.com

Julie Moore is a graphic designer. Write to her at sweetwilliamdesign@me.com

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