This boy is not wearing shoes so the dirt can settle in the little creases of his toes and under his toenails. He may not have combed his hair since Sunday. His pants are clean, though, and he is so proud to sport the armor created by his big brother.
My thoughts are on my sister Susan who gave birth to her first son last week. I’ve been taking a good look at my sons, reflecting on my time with them. I’ve thought about their little baby bodies that have grown up; I’ve thought about their current activities, the scouting and the school and music lessons and sports; I’ve thought about their future, going on missions and someday being responsible for families of their own.
My life is so entertaining with sons in the house. Ours is a house of boys, of collections, machines, and castles. Books about battles and building magazines cover the family room ottoman; countertops are spattered with dirty water spots from hasty washings of hands.
Paige’s room and my bathroom drawer full of cosmetics and sweet smelling lotions are no match for the piles of tennis shoes, baseball mitts, rackets, and many, many socks. Oh, the socks! I’ve never met a mother who could talk objectively about her sons’ socks… the number, level of soil, and sorting solutions seem to make the most capable woman’s lower lip begin to quiver.
So we’ll just stop talking about that.
And let’s move on to a few of the reasons I love raising sons. It’s terribly rewarding. Girls are expected to be good, but when your sons show good behavior, people will compose an aria about your son’s helpfulness and perform it for you in the church hallway. Boys are good at carrying firewood for Cub Scout activities. They kill the bugs that get into the house and dispose of them, no charge. They decide that once they have their Sunday suits on and there are ten minutes left before we leave for church that it’s a good time to shoot the bb gun in the backyard. Instead of saying no, I decided to love that original thought. I love, love, love, homemade presents from boys such as a twig with my initial carved into it; a love note, carefully hidden inside a book at my bedside; a bracelet with every color of bead so it will match everything.
I watched a mother run around the playground with her son today. This little mother had force fields; she ran, she fell when wounded, she deflected lasers. She had obviously studied her son and had the lingo D-O-W-N. I have never been that kind of mother. I do a lot more observing than playing. Somehow it’s not in my personality to have fun. But this makes me a good observer, and I watch those boys carefully, looking for attitudes and behaviors that are good or not so good. And then I compose sneaky plans for how to improve those behaviors and attitudes.
In all my thinking and observing and (sneaky) planning, I’m hoping to prepare my sons to be the men who will stay after the church activity to clean up chairs and sweep the floor; to be the ones who notice when someone needs help and know how to help them; to be the ones with the spiritual skills to teach the gospel; to be the ones who are trustworthy and can take a task and complete it without supervision or hassling; to be the ones who take a righteous stand; to be the ones who love the Lord and love their families enough to leave them to complete their home teaching and church assignments and come home ready to wrestle with their own sons.
It’s a big list, I know, but I’m serious about trying to raise good sons.
Hooray for Susan and her Richard, whom my mother calls, “Richard II,” and the girls. I’m so excited for you to have a son and a little brother!
