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!