Where did you come from?

Last night I walked into my daughter's room to discover her engaged in a serious discussion with her brother. She was sitting on her bed in her pajamas and he was standing in the middle of her room. Naked, except for a pair of Batman socks. My mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened and closed a few more times searching for the appropriate words that escaped me until finally I gave up and walked out.

I come from a long line of women. Okay, so that may seem obvious, but what I mean is that the men in our family are there by marriage. So imagine my surprise when I discovered we were having a son. It started with the ultrasound where I badgered the technician - are you sure? Check again. It's not that I was opposed to having a boy, it's just that I didn't know what to do with one. We had a girl, and the next one was supposed to be her sister. That was the natural order of things. But we did indeed have a boy, and every single day I am reminded how unprepared I am for this job.

For starters, no one tells you that the desire to blow everything up starts very early on, pretty much before actual speech. *Anything* can be made into a weapon, being naked is not a cause for alarm, and bathroom humor never gets old. Ever. Before having a son I thought these were stereotypes. Exaggerated over-generalizations. With each passing year I am learning that they are in fact my reality.

In the early years I was amazed to discover the vast wealth of knowledge I had accumulated about...trucks. I could tell you about any truck on the road - what it was used for, who drove it, and so on. Although I had no practical need for this knowledge I am confident it is more useful then my extensive knowledge of 80s music. Now that the boy is almost six I have shed my truck data and replaced it with a disturbing level of knowledge about...Star Wars. One of my high points (or low points, depending on how you look at it) was when I found Mace Windu's head while cleaning out my van. Not only was I thrilled to find Mace's head because his headless action figure body disturbed me more than I like to admit, but I instantly knew whose head I had found.

I also find myself uttering phrases without the slightest trace of self-consciousness or absurdity, such as *stop playing with the bees in the bush* or *kicking your friend and having him kick you is not a game*. The other day he had a friend over. First I had to tell them to stop kicking each other. Next I told them to stop punching each other, at which point they cried out: then what is there for us to do?

I am not saying it would have been easier if I'd had a second girl, or that I would have things under control more than I do. Or that I would be able to shed my self-bestowed title of *mediocre mom*. I just often have the feeling that up there god is laughing at me. That my son is a daily reminder to me to *lighten up*. I am constantly amazed and amused by how this little guy thinks. I mean really, *why not* play the air guitar while jumping on your bed...naked?