A booby-holder. This was apparently the consensus the matching pair of four-year-old boys in the back of a red Target cart came to when they were asked what their mom might like for Valentine’s Day.
It was not hard for me to picture the scene as my husband recounted it to me later that evening. I could picture the boys with the seemingly perpetual lines of chocolate coating the creased corners of their mouths, their golden hair “spiked” every which way after they insisted on styling it with cream cheese that morning. I could picture the serious deliberation on their faces when my husband asked them, “What should we get your Mom for Valentine’s Day?”
“A tractor!”
“A tool set!”
“A buzz light-year shooting gun!”— These were just a sampling of the initial gift-brilliance they came up with.
“Those sound like fun things you might like, but let’s think of some things Mommy might like,” my weathered and oh-so-wise husband suggested as he slowly pushed them through the aisle of Star Wars toys.
At this, I could picture the boys’ atypical quietness as they collectively moved their attention from light sabers and gave a Valentine’s gift “Mommy might like,” some consideration. I had no problem at all envisioning the florescent lighting of the store, or when my one son turned to his brother and asked victoriously, “Hey! I know! What are those things that hold Mommy’s boobies?” And without missing a beat I could imagine my other son matter-of-factly informing him “those things that hold Mommy’s boobies—they are called “booby-holders.” I could picture my husband’s unsuccessful attempts to stifle a smile, which I envisioned as a mixture of fatherly pride and boyish sheepishness. I could picture my sons’ combined excitement and voices elevate to a deafening pitch far exceeding that of the intercom of the store— or a jet engine— as they proudly pronounced their perfected gift idea to their father and everyone else in North America, “A Booby-holder! Mommy really, really, really, needs a new booby-holder!”
Four years ago, I was inwardly relieved when the sonographer pointed out the “app’s for boys” two-thirds of the babies I carried so proudly displayed across the screen. Having grown up with brothers, I felt like I had a good handle on the frogs and snails and puppy dog tails that little boys are made of, and quite frankly, it was the prospect of ingredients like sugar and spice and everything nice that seemed awfully vague and had me more than a little worried.
However, what I now know after a few years of parenting boys—besides the fact that I could seriously reap the benefits of an anti-anxiety prescription—is that there are quite a few more things that make up little boys. For example, besides puppy dog tails, little boys seem to be made of broken arms or blood gushing abrasions requiring stitches at 5:03 p.m. on Friday evenings, which, coincidentally is the exact moment the automated answering service at the pediatrician’s office is turned on.
Little boys are made up of farts that are apparently always hysterically funny— especially if performed in a bathtub with an unsuspecting sister. Little boys are made up of collections of hot wheels, shriveled worms, an affinity for matches, and questions like “Mommy, is my penis made out of glass or plastic?” Little boys are made up of an uncanny ability to locate anything containing an engine within a hundred mile radius, and an uncanny inability to locate the place in the toilette bowl where pee should land. Little boys are made up of a repertoire of sound effects with only one volume setting— loud. And the moments of quiet that comprise little boys mean that it is probably a good idea to get the fire department on the line.
Little boys are made up of a raw honesty — “Mommy, I don’t want you to be the boss because I want to be the BOSS!”— A stance on life that while challenging, at least leaves no ambiguity as to where he stands on the topic.
Little boys are made up of the very best intentions that often go awry— a pancake breakfast in bed for Mom that ends up in the pillows, a love note written in permanent marker on dry wall, or a gift in the form of the neighbors prize-winning rose buds. They are full of energy, curiosity, and an innate understanding of loyalty. Little boys are made up of the hearts of men in little bodies. And little boys are made up of the stuff that can transform just one sticky kiss, just one “I love you, Mommy,” into a currency that can somehow fill your soul in places that take your breath away.
I know that the stuff that makes up little boys, is the same stuff that will one day turn them into men— the kind of men like the one sitting across from me with a twinkle of boyish excitement in his eye as he watches me unwrap a Valentine’s Day gift— a gift that I know with certainty is a booby holder.
