I Love My Boys

Sometimes I don't think that I can take the rampant testosterone flying about our apartment. On most days it seems like if someone isn't screaming, yelling, growling, or roaring, then something is being broken or hurled through the air.

Rather than being the serene and gentle mother I would like to be, I just feel vexed and grouchy as I scurry from one disaster-waiting-to-happen to the next, all while trying to cook meals, keep house, and manage to maintain a semblance of personal hygiene. I find a bit of consolation in the fact that none of our boys has figured out how to throw things out the window . . . yet. That's a good thing, because much of the time, my patience is about ready to exit by that route. I always considered myself a patient person―until I had kids. It's humbling, which is probably good for me, and it's forcing me to rely moment by moment on Jesus, and as far as I'm concerned, nothing could be better than that.

When people meet us for the first time, they always seem a bit surprised to learn that all three of our kids are boys. Those who don't immediately assume that we're done having children invariably make some comment about us having a girl next. And I always smile and nod and say that we hope so. And we do, I think. I mean, all along I've wanted each of my babies to be a girl. So why is it that recently, when I catch myself daydreaming about the possibility of baby #4, I feel a tender smile settling on my face as I picture him as another little boy?

My sons may exasperate and bewilder me, but each is irreplaceable and precious. I hope it goes without saying that I wouldn't trade any of them for a girl, even if given the chance to go back in time and carry a baby girl in my womb instead. In the occasional moments of clarity when I can step outside of the situation enough to stop worrying about whether or not our landlord's furniture or remodeling job will be damaged by their antics, I realize that there is something indescribably endearing in the cheerful rowdiness of my boys.

And there is so much more than their rowdiness that is endearing. My 5-year-old loves to do little chores around the apartment for me and takes great pride in saying that he's a good helper. Multiple times a day, my disarmingly cute 3-year-old looks at me with his big brown eyes and says, "Mommy, I love you so much!" And my 17-month-old, who started life as a super content baby, is growing into a little boy who seems to be the personification of happiness. My cup of blessings is full, but not too full for another baby boy!

P.S. If anyone was wondering where I've been the for the last three and a half months, I was on furlough, literally. We're missionaries in Ukraine, and after 3 years on the field, this winter we went back to the States. I had every intention of continuing to write while we lived out of suitcases, slept in other people's homes, and traveled extensively, visiting 5 states, driving 2,700 miles, and riding on 12 different airplanes . . . but somehow I never managed to squeeze it in. Can you believe it?? But I'm back now and hope to post here regularly from now on. 🙂

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