boys will be boys

When I gave birth to my first son, I thought my husband would burst knowing his family name would carry on (because we're suburban royalty and he'll be heir to our massive four-figure savings account). When our next boy debuted nearly five years later, my husband leapt onto the hide-a-bed in the hospital room and beat his chest like a mighty warrior. The man is, to say the least, proud to have sons, and our boys are very boyish. The house is littered with action figures, talk of sports dominate, and when I came home with pink t shirts for them last summer, there was a collective shaking of their heads to indicate that no way in hell would they wear them.

There is a distinct 'boy smell' around the place. Except when the Tool Man is gone and it's just me and the boys.

Last night, my youngest was humming a song to avoid eating his dinner. Within moments, he was staging a full scale concert. His song of choice? The Pussycat Dolls' Don't Cha. It was with incredible range and vocal prowess that he belted out the "Don't cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me" chorus. I couldn't help myself. Halfway through, I was singing along. My oldest son soon joined the band, and, our spaghetti abandoned, we were dancing around the kitchen. Oh sure, they credit a viewing of Alvin and the Chipmunks with their fondness for this song, but I couldn't help but point out that they put a lot of feeling behind the 'girlfriend' chorus.

Then I couldn't wait to videotape them and send the clip off to their dad, who's traveling this week. "Don't cha wish your sons were girls sometime?" was my subject line. In classic "man mode," my husband didn't say much about that when he called later. Instead, he reminded me wrestling was on the Sci Fi channel later, and I should record it for them.

However, tonight, when I share today's story with him, I expect he'll mutter something. This morning, while under the guise of brushing their teeth so they could go to school, my oldest son poked his head over the banister and, with great fanfare, introduced me to my "new, improved youngest son!"

Moments later, my six year old, his shirt stuffed with balloons to create what I can only say was a mighty impressive rack, marched down the stairs, ran around the living room a couple of times like uncaged madness, paused briefly in front of me to shake his bony little ass, and then burst upstairs, where he morphed back into a boy. When they came downstairs, I asked the boys what it was they were showing off.

"It made him look fat!" my oldest said.

"Yeah. Fat." chimed the youngest.

"Huh. Because I was thinking you were showing off your boobs," I replied. "We should take a picture for your dad."

(Who I'm certain will peer into the future and wonder if he'll be on CNN one day talking about his pregnant son)

I expected them to protest vehemently that no, no we shouldn't immortalize that momentary mammary lapse for dear old dad. Instead, they tucked around the corner, where I heard them whispering (like girls) as they discussed the merits of the idea. Then they'd peek around the corner at me and giggle (like girls). Just as I was thinking that maybe I'd get those pink t shirts out for them this season, my 10 year old emerged from the corner and burst into a fit of laughter.

"You said 'boobs!'" he said, then fell to the floor laughing in a boob muttering heap. To cap off the moment, my youngest laughed so hard he made himself belch.

All boys, they are. All boys.

No wonder their dad is so proud.