Lip rings, motocross and other reasons I don't want my boys to grow up

Sigh.

It's been long over due to write, but my computer has become my ultimate nemesis depriving me of my only private time to write and has all but blown up its useless microchips on the basement floor. In fact I wish it would. At least then I would have physical evidence to prove our need to purchase a Mac.

Over the past week or so I've continued to reinforce the notion of how elated I am that I have two tiring, drain-the-energy-reserves-out-of-me-before-I-even-crawl-out-of-bed toddlers.

Last weekend I went out for a drink with some friends, and while we danced around small talk at a casual birthday bash for a newbie-21-er, I made note of the wallflowers scattered around the room who were somehow related to the birthday girl. The boys, older than her, were the epitome the art school stereotype. The long, shaggy hair, and black skinny pants tighter than my own might I add. A Pink Floyd shirt was adorned by one of the guys, while the other had a shiny black lip ring that he kept fiddling with either out of habit or as a perpetual attention grabbing technique. Audrey and Denise, my fellow drinking comrades, sighed and said how "It seemed like yesterday they were cute little boys."

Gasp. What? You mean they weren't born this way? Didn't they just pop out of the womb with black nail polish? Weren't the parents forewarned that their innocent boys would eventually become... their own person?
I went home that night, a little rejuvenated for not having to bathe and put the boys to bed, and to have the unique opportunity to apply make up and feel girly. However, I restrained myself from not creeping into my boys' room to peer into their cribs and silently thank God for their innocence and if possible that they could just remain as such for longer than humanly possible.

The next day, as I was putting away my laundry, I received a subdued phone call from my sister-in-law to hear my nephew, my nearly 19 year old senior in high school nephew, just crashed for the second time while racing at a motocross event. She described the event in horrid detail, and I think I held my breath for about two minutes until she uttered "But... he's okay. Just a concussion."

With each passing day, my kids grow with more independence and although I eat it up and love to see Mason barreling down the driveway on his tricycle, or Peyton learning how to walk haphazardly like the Tin Man from the "Wizard of Oz", I admittedly dislike the bittersweet journey.



I loathe the bullheadedness that I see in both of my kids who come by it quite honestly. Jason and I have our own horns that have been in tact for many years and have a way of locking upon confrontation. It's only natural that our children would too bestow their own little horns. With those horns come an innate desire for independence, and I fear my little boys whose diapers I change right now, could be some day way too soon blowing me off with the aloof mannerisms of a teenager who doesn't care if mom thinks he looks like something out of the "Rocky Horror Picture Show".


I know that change is one of the inevitable things in life, but seriously. Really, motocross? Does this face really look like one of a boy who will do anything [including a lip ring] to pull the wool over dear mom's eyes?

Yea... I know. I'm screwed.