The Mother of Boys

The Mother of Boys

From Chicken Soup for the Soul: A Tribute to Moms

The Mother of Boys

I am the mother of boys.

I play goalie as I make supper. I can dribble a ball as I answer the phone and can assemble a train as I nurse a baby.

I am the mother of boys.

I measure a good day not by the weather or the company, but by the number of bugs caught, the quality of the sticks found, and the depth of the puddles splashed.

I am the mother of boys.

Fascinated ears listen to me tell tales of alligators, dinosaurs, and fast cars. I do load upon load of blue laundry; the only pink item to be seen is when a red sock makes its way into the white load. I check all laundry for reptiles and rocks.

I am the mother of boys.

I most frequently say, “Not so rough,” “Get down, please,” and “Watch where you’re peeing.” I get dizzy watching little bodies run circles around any inanimate object.

I am the mother of boys.

I wipe forever-dirty faces and hands. At night, I am amazed by the many new bruises and scrapes. I join in prayers that thank God for airplanes and pirates and Smarties candies.

I am the luckiest mother on earth. I am the mother of boys.

Beverly A. Suntjens

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