Superbowl Sunday proves once again that 'boys will be boys'

My daughter Ciara and I are surrounded by boys in every sense of the word.  Even our dog (a loyal golden/lab mix named Finnegan) is a boy.  And even Finnegan seems to revel in the primal pleasure of burping and farting in a way that I’m certain I will never understand.
In our house, while I’d like to think that I rule the roost, I am woefully outnumbered and consistently amazed (and slightly horrified!) by just how much "boys will be boys" and just how young it all starts.  I remember when Liam, our firstborn, was about one and a half, he looked at me with outright glee and said ‘FART!”.  I instantly shot my husband a stern look that clearly said “where the hell did he learn that and do you really think it’s appropriate for a kid under two to be joyfully exclaiming FART?!” and then I sweetly looked at my little lad and said “No, no.  Not fart.  Toot.”  And then he and my husband exchanged glances and roared with laughter as if to say “Is she serious?!  What a loser!  Guys don’t TOOT, we FART!”  And so it began.
Our triplets were about the age Liam was when they discovered the joy of flatulation... and they were equally exuberant.  I sometimes feel like a poo-poo prisoner because though they just recently turned two,  they have figured out the one way to get Mom’s undivided attention is to shout with all their might “Poo Poo Potty!!!  POO POO POTTY!!!!!”  So, I take them, one by one to sit on the potty.  They hold me hostage as I rub their back, sing them songs, tell stories and urge them to poop or pee or do something other than hold me against my will in our dirty bathroom.  And you know what my reward is?  The occasional fart!  The stinky fart (most certainly NOT a tender toot!) has become the first inking of potential success with the potty training.  Ah, the irony of it all.
Then there are the sports.  My husband is a bit of a fanatic and despite my occasional (actually, make that increasingly frequent!) protests, our four little boys are clearly dedicated to following in their father’s footsteps while poor little Ciara just looks at me as if to say “are they for real?!”  
The triplets just love to get in the game – any game.  They are obsessed with balls.  … soccer balls, soft balls, baseballs, tennis balls, footballs, beach balls, golf balls, lacrosse balls, you name it, they love it.  They’re even starting to enjoy their own personal sets, if you know what I mean.  Their limited vocabulary is fairly fluent in the language of sport – “pass”, “catch”, “out”, “my turn” and my personal favorite, “who’s open?!” are a part of their daily vernacular.  Regrettably “NO BALLS IN THE HOUSE” has become part of mine. 
Beyond playing sports, watching them has also become a favorite pastime.  Liam has been known to cry if bedtime arrives before the game du jour ends and apparently “needs” to watch Sports Center when he wakes up.  The  triplets have mastered “J-E-T-S, Jets, Jets, JETS!,” and seemed visibly crushed to learn that their team wasn’t going to the Superbowl.  Even so, naptime yesterday was more of a battle than usual because the little fellas didn’t want to miss a minute of “the big football game.”  Try as I might, they just didn’t understand that the game didn't start until well after dinner time and that without a nap, they’d surely miss the kickoff!
All I can say is, heaven help me and my little lady… yesterday’s Superbowl confirmed that much to my chagrin, ALL my little guys seem to enjoy watching any sort of ball game while keeping a tight grip on their own.  My husband assured me this is all normal (as he asked me to move so he could see the score!) and uttered with an admittance and acceptance that I’m starting to understand, “Sorry hon, boys will be boys.” 

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