Mom's Fort: No Boys Allowed

I am surrounded by testosterone. It bounces off the walls to the rhythm of a basketball, soccer ball, baseball, basically anything shaped like a ball and drips off the sides of my toilet seat. It lives in the scattered Legos planted like land mines in the No Man's or maybe No Woman's Land of the playroom. It shouts across rooms for Doritos and more lemonade or into giant Xbox headsets as my oldest warns his unseen friends in other living rooms,"Look out for that sniper". The maleness of my house dominates every room with stinky shoes, half-open containers of "slime", discarded bags of Jolly Ranchers, and the tangy, vinegar-doused smell of hot wings in the toaster oven. It blares from every television screen, computer screen, and iPad screen with the sounds of car chases, explosions, sports announcers, pranksters, and English vloggers shouting at their own television screens.

It even creeps across my skin with the rubbery texture of plastic spiders and snakes. Their boyishness elbows me as they compete to see who can touch more of mom as we lie on the couch watching Doctor Who as dad enjoys a whole loveseat to himself. Or they jump on me like overgrown puppies if I lie on the floor, accidentally inviting an unasked for wrestling match.

Which is why I have become a closet case. Meaning I honestly hide in my walk-in closet decking it out with dried flowers, beach scenes, pinks, teals, cutesy desk supplies with carved arrows and words of encouragement written on the sides in round, feminine fonts. Because as a mother of two boys, my female-proclivities are being encroached on and nearly eradicated. And while I am not the epitome of girlishness as evidenced by my yoga pants, baggy T-shirts, and messy ponytail; there is still an innate need within me to immerse myself in feminine objects and images. I need a place that smells more like citrus perfume and essential oils than farts and unwashed armpits. A room that reflects the softer, more emotional side of my personality. A place without harsh corners, video game controllers, or basketball hoops.

Of course, the mom-guilt seeps in when my boys or husband knock on the door, or I shoo them out after they've wheedled their way inside. But why do I feel guilty for needing to escape to the one small corner of the entire house where I can feel at home? Where I feel happy within my pretty, feminine space. I already battle daily to retain a modicum of my own personality and interests within an overwhelming schedule of other people's hobbies and past times. At the very least, I deserve my own feminine fort and the right to say for an hour a day: No Boys Allowed!
 

Compromised Out

I just listened to a sermon at church that included the advice to women to submit/ respect their husbands. And my eyes rolled back inside my head like Bingo balls. It's not that I don't love and respect my husband. I do. He's my friend, lover, and partner, and I'm blessed to have it so good. But I hate the word submit in that it implies that my husband has all the power and authority in our relationship making me the dear little submissive wife instead of suggesting we are equal partners who work together for the common good of our marriage and family.

So I was already tense, like a black cat on Halloween night when I suggested a salad for dinner tonight and got the collective groan from all the guys in the house. Because this is the typical response to anything I want. Therefore, I'm supposed to compromise and make something that everyone wants to eat. Just like I compromise on what to watch on T.V. or what movie we go to. So I eat steak and hot dogs and a bland vegetable. I watch Star Trek and whatever action movie or superhero movie is in the theater. And while I do enjoy a good steak and a Marvel flick, I am tired of compromise being defined as giving into whatever the guys like.

No one compromises and says they'll eat a salad one night a week or go see a romantic comedy. Nope, if I want to do something they don't want to do, I must do it alone. Find a girl friend to watch a rom com with, watch This Is Us alone in the bedroom or make my own separate dinner if I want something fresh and zingy. So why am I the only one who compromises? Doesn't the definition of compromise mean we take turns doing what the other wants? Just because I like science fiction and comic book movies doesn't negate the fact that I'd like to see something else with my family. That maybe they can broaden their horizons too by stepping out of their comfort zone to see a movie musical or try an unusual food.

Besides, the reason I am relatively easy to please, most of the time, is because I like a lot of things. I can watch most genres of movie except horror, I like a wide range of music from rock to pop to musicals to big band to classical. And I like trying new foods or exploring new places. But that's because my mother introduced me to a wide range of things growing up.

I'm just tired of compromise meaning I give in and do what the guys want even if its something I like. I just want someone else to bend for once and try something new instead of its our way or go do it alone. The power balance in the house feels off. All the men in my life: husband and sons seem to dictate the electronics, the foods, and the entertainment. And while I know there are some women who happily submit and enjoy serving, I do not feel blessed but resentful when forced to serve. Resentful that I don't get choice, unless that choice is to be alone.