The house is thick with testosterone, even when they are all sound asleep. At night, the clean scent of my lotion cuts through it like a warm knife through butter. In fact, I can barely smell a thing, it’s that subtle. But Damon will sit up in bed, half asleep, and declare, “I can’t take that smell! You don’t understand, it’s killing me.”
I’m outnumbered by men, three to one. And that’s not including the dogs, who (for the love of God) are not here right now. The boys are getting older, though, and more willful. Chas is already throwing flailing tantrums, of the head-bashing variety, when his brother takes the basketball away from him. Ford, for his part, is already a little man.
I was carrying my open laptop into the bedroom today and found him lying on my bed, watching some afterschool, non-PBS-type, commercial-interrupted cartoon show. I stood there, frozen in the doorway. And he just lay there, staring at the tv, oblivious to the screaming going on in my head. And I couldn’t help notice that his hand was, as usual, in his pants.
“Ford, this show has guns. You know how I feel about guns! I hate them. Guns and greed are the root of all evil.” Well, except testosterone, right?
“Well, Mom, you’ll just have to keep your eyes on the laptop, then, okay?”
