BOYS

 

BOYS.

Not like girls.

Wear same t-shirt three times a week.

Answer (grunt) ‘yes’ and ‘no’, if bothering to respond at all.

Play drums non-stop; fingers and palms channeling drumsticks on pans, counter tops, and the flattest surface on pets.

Confuse clutter with order. Messy with neat.

Cannot comprehend the concept of ‘details’, ‘story’, and ‘conversation’. Or that “Mom needs details, stories, and conversation!”

Wash pants with belts intact in loops.

Commandeer all entertainment; selecting sports, action flicks, sports, and replays of sports.

Negotiate Fantasy Football trades as if negotiating Middle East Peace.

Wear out the treads on $247 sneakers in two short weeks.

Cannot comprehend the concept of “Mom misses her girls! Stop arguing! Be nice! Watch a chick flick!”

Never pause. Unless asleep.

Pretend not to worry about their hair. Or anything.

Out-loud low flying 747s.

Eschew drama. Unless it's their drama.

Drink milk by the gallon. By the sitting.

Never admit defeat to stain stick.

Cannot comprehend the concept of napkin on lap. Or six cookies is plenty.

Pay attention to commands, but only those that include threat of death or loss of texting instrument.

Occasionally redeem themselves.

Like today.

When they saw tears and offered cheeks.

Like tonight.

When they named their male puppy’s stuffed “play partners” Darla Sue and Tammy Jo.

After Daddy’s high school girlfriends. 

Boys.

Brilliant.

QUING Hereby Decrees: Boys are (literally, figuratively, and every other -ly) the BOMB. They may stay.