I’m the only living thing in our household who doesn’t possess a prostate gland.
I really tried to produce a girl-child. But during 18 months of pregnancies, not one bit of femininity rubbed off on the little beings in the womb. Apparently I was just an incubator for my husband Seth’s clones. Twice.
But that was more than 20 years ago.
For awhile, our home was the classic empty nest. I barely knew what to do with myself, aside from enrolling in school, getting involved in community theater and going out to dinner whenever I felt like it.
But today’s economy is tough, and sometimes the buzzards flock back to the nest for a little while. They always return with more baggage than when they left.
One of our sons came home with tattoos, a 2-year-old and a lot of toys.
The other one came home with tattoos, a motorcycle and some Afghanistan memories to try to make sense of.
The tattoos shouldn’t have surprised me. Both boys liked to write on themselves with markers when they were little. The motorcycle was no surprise, either, because sometimes you have to drive really fast to outrun memories.
As for the baby — well, a puppy would have been easier, but as it turns out we adore the little guy. He is, of course, a boy, so apparently there is no estrogen to be found anywhere in our gene pool.
So I share my home with 3½ men. A male-dominated household provides endless opportunity for stimulating conversation. I am happy to share an example.
“Has anybody around here seen my clean underwear? Mine are Hanes,” says son No. 1.
“I have some Hanes, too,” says son No. 2. He is on the floor with a throw pillow over his face. His son — my grandson — is nearby under the sofa table, filling his pamper.
“No … yours are all Fruit of the Loom. Aren’t they? Oh man, have you been wearing my underwear?”
Son No. 1 once went for 63 days straight without a shower in Afghanistan, but he doesn’t want to share his underwear with his younger brother.
Son No. 2 removes the pillow from his face.
“What colors do you have?”
There is never any question about the ownership of their father’s underwear.
Both boys are avid gym-goers. After a good work-out, they come home with inflated biceps (“guns”) and egos.
“Mom, mom, feel my Traps!” Son No. 1 is the pushy one.
“Honestly, the last thing I want to do is touch your sweaty back,” I assure him.
“Ah, come on Mom! Man, dip me in latex and I could be the mold for a Batman suit!”
Son No. 2 is more subtle. He pulls up his tank top and exposes his washboard abs. “This is where mom does her laundry…”
That’s my cue. I open the door to the laundry room, revealing the massive pile of laundry (which includes several brands of underwear).
“This is where you guys need to do YOUR laundry!”
Theresa Timmons’ column appears every first and third Sunday. She is an Elwood resident and can be reached at paperflinger40@yahoo.com.
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Theresa Timmons: Empty nest again full of testosterone, missing undies
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