Life is full of surprises. That’s the simple way of saying that we live in a world of endless uncertainty, at least. It doesn’t stop us from hoping or planning, from forming expectations for how we think our lives will turn out. I always thought I’d have three kids, all close together in age. I thought I’d have a mini me and a minivan. My life would feel as happy and put together as our family photos on the wall, coordinated and polished.

These days, the only thing polished about me is my nails, a necessary habit to keep me from anxiously destroying my nailbeds with my last nerve. Needless to say, I never became a mother of daughters. I don’t drive around town in a 7-seater with an automatic door-close feature, but maybe someday I will. I work between school drop-offs and pick up forgotten Hot Wheels that have been launched off my front porch. 

I live in the land of boyhood. And in some ways, I always have. I never had a sister, and neither did Hunter. I have always disliked jewelry and dressing up. Instead, I liked playing catch and trading Pokémon cards. My parents burned holes in the backs of their eyelids from how often they had to tell me to put my knees down at the dinner table and stop slouching over my steamed broccoli. To no one’s surprise, I failed etiquette class in my adolescence, and my Girl Scout leaders rued the day they ever let me join their troop.

Still, I wrestled with just being a boy mom for years. Because there’s a world where I’ll dance with my sons at their weddings, but my husband will watch every dance from his seat. I worry that maternal grandmothers tend to have more opportunities with their grandkids than paternal ones. I’ll just have to wait and see when it’s my turn. Time with sons feels more finite; their independence comes sooner. A decade from now, Griffin will turn his tassel just after he turns 18. Maybe the pain of realizing this over the last several months has kept me more present, more attuned to the reality of time.

I don’t know how to process the transition of boyhood to adulthood yet. There’s always a thought in the back of my head that I’m traumatizing my kids with my parenting, fearing what their future therapists might think of me. So I’m trying to savor this. These moments, this time of our lives. There will never be another world where Nolan is 6, and I’m 33 at the same time. I know very little about parenting, but I am learning a few things about raising only boys. And raising boys is teaching me a few things about life. And it’s a life I’m learning to love.

Raising boys is loud, and it’s confrontational. Maybe girls are loud too. But in my house, the decibels reach another stratosphere. Whether they’re happy, mad, or sad, it’s deafening. Arguments are more common than quiet. Their conflict is volcanic, and then it solidifies just as quickly as it started.

I used to want to jump into every altercation between brothers. But coming from a family of four boys, Hunter has helped me see that brothers who figure out how to work through dissension become bonded and eventually become better leaders. In the times when we choose to let them work it out, we’ve overheard them exchange apologies, or we’ve seen them hug it out. Laughter often follows. My being okay with their conflict has helped them strengthen their communication and collaboration skills faster than talking at them in my frustration.

Because boyhood is physical. Boys do not have an off switch; they have an energy dial. There is always energy. It’s solely a matter of how intense it can become. So we have an over-the-door basketball hoop, NERF guns, and an indoor football for Midwest winters. Our version of home decor is solely throw pillows, which often become weaponized during impromptu wrestling matches.

Speaking of wrestling, I’m learning it is an underappreciated art of working out boy energy. Once its biggest critic, I am now a proponent of letting my kids wrestle on the carpet after dinner. Yes, someone always gets hurt. But also yes, they laugh with their dad. They learn their own capacity and how to fight fair. They learn their limitations and how to read the limits of other people.

Nolan puts holes in every pair of pants or pajamas he has ever owned. Learning is hands-on. They learn to measure risk by jumping off things. So there is one couch in my house where that is allowed within reason. They’re rough on their shoes from playing so long outdoors. Dirt often gets tracked into the house. Bugs are beloved creatures. Monster drawings are some of my most prized possessions. Griffin’s football cards often get categorized and ranked on rugs.

Crumbs get dropped on the floor. Ants in the house become a lesson in picking up after ourselves. As a recovering perfectionist, I’ve come to prefer worn-out shoes from kids who play in the mud to pristine children who haven’t yet discovered the gift of adventure.

Some day I’ll miss seeing LEGOs splayed out. I’ll miss having to toss out worn-out socks and making chicken fingers with Nolan’s specialty sauce, Ranch-Up (that’s ranch and ketchup stirred together). For so long, I dreamed of having an immaculate house. But now, I’m learning to let the boys decorate their walls with their own art and line their dressers with knick-knacks they proudly made. I function better when everything’s all picked up, but I’m slowly adjusting my definition of clean. Boyhood has changed me. I’m not the mom I thought I’d be, but I’m becoming a better me.

As someone who has always sweated the small stuff, bringing up boys has been a crash course in learning to not sweat so much. I now understand why we don’t need to buy nice things. They’re just things. And they often get stained, torn, broken, or worn out faster than I plan. Through parenthood, I’m discovering the gift of experiences. Spending a small fortune on taking them to the movies and eating overpriced, over-buttered popcorn is worth the price of seeing them come home and continue to live in their imaginations. A large patch of backyard is grassless from where the boys have dug and made dirt ramps for monster trucks. The only price we pay is annoying our neighbors with views of toy dump trucks and shovels.

I’m also practicing saying less. When discipline is necessary, I tend to gravitate towards long explanations, ensuring that I’m understood. What I’ve created are kids who, in turn, give me long explanations for their excuses. I’m in the process of course correcting and practicing being clearer and more concise. In the earlier years, we worked on expanding their emotional vocabulary and when and how to express what they felt. I hope my simplification helps them continue to articulate how they feel and then become solution-oriented faster.

Griffin is teaching me that confidence is a choice. Sure, everyone may start out with varying degrees of it. But you can build on what you have and become a stronger person. Self-doubt is a choice, too. What we do with our agency determines our growth. Griffin loves to sing. And he loves to sing loudly, of course. During the last week of school, he had the opportunity to sing in class during a talent day, so he picked a song he loved. When he came home, he shared that two friends were laughing at him and said his song was stupid. When I asked if they shared any of their talents with the class, he said no. We talked about how their failure to be vulnerable themselves rendered their opinions of him null and void. 

Character is built through practice. Grit grows from doing hard things. Griffin puts in more effort than anyone I’ve ever met. And he’s still singing.

Nolan is showing me how fun life is when you choose to be carefree and give of yourself. He colors outside the lines on purpose. He wears long, silly socks with shorts because looking at them makes him happy. He’s not concerned about fitting any mold. Nolan loves laughing, storytelling, and creativity. He’s Griffin’s most faithful companion. Since his toddler years, he’s had a natural willingness to share his food, his toys, or his time. Nolan teaches us the art of levity and loyalty.

Boyhood demands all of you, and I’m not always all the way here. Some days, the stress of all their experimental messes and short attention spans gets to me. Most days, I wonder if all their arguing is going to be what takes me out. Nearly every day, my Apple watch tells me that “repeated, long-term exposure to sounds at this level can damage your hearing.” Great. So now I have to save up for hearing aids before I’m even eligible for Medicare.

But the gift of loving the life I have is the assurance that there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. This is it. Unless God deems otherwise, I am a boy mom to two very different personalities with infinite opportunities to depend on Jesus to be the mom they need. Before I know it, we won’t have to bleach the toilets every Wednesday night to sterilize all their missed attempts. We won’t be shoveling food in our mouths before practices or signing them up for summer camps. Some day I’ll tell their kids about how they made their own dart board out of the drywall and overflowed the bathtub while wearing goggles.

But for now, I’ll enjoy cleaning grass off of cleats and seeing dirty handprints on windows. Signs that boys live here. And that these are the golden days.

Long live boyhood.

Take care & take heart,