The Mother of Boys

By Bev Suntjen

I am the mother of boys.

I play goalie as I make supper.

I can dribble a ball as I answer the phone

and can assemble a train as I nurse a baby.

I am the mother of boys.

I measure a good day not by the weather or

the company, but by the number of bugs caught,

the quality of the sticks found,

and the depths of the puddles splashed.

I am the mother of boys.

Fascinated ears listen to me tell

tales of alligators, dinosaurs and fast cars.

I do load upon load of blue laundry;

the only pink item to be seen is when a red sock

makes its way into the white load.

I check all laundry for reptiles and rocks.

I am the mother of boys.

I most frequestly say "Not so rough",

"get down, please" and "Watch where you're peeing".

I get dizzy watching little bodies run

circles around any inanimate object.

I am the mother of boys.

I wipe forever-dirty faces and hands.

At night, I am amazed by the many new

bruises and scrapes.

I join in prayers that thank God for

Airplanes and pirates and

Smarties candies.

I am the luckiest mother on earth.

I am the mother of boys.