'I felt so alone as the only female in my family. But I've come to love life with two sons.'

For the friends and family that know me, know, I am a self-titled, Hot Wheels rev head, dinosaur loving, tackle champion mother of two boys. I know, *eye rolls*, girls can enjoy all the above and more just as much as boys, but I’m speaking from the perspective of the only single, living, breathing female in my household – minus the dog but that doesn’t quite compare.

Last week, I had a moment. You know, those “moments” mother’s often encounter. When you pause momentarily in your tracks and your eyes are widened to the madness that is enveloping directly in front of you. Yes, a moment.

I was mid-conversation with the younger bubba, mainly concerning his lack of hygiene, when he turned his head, looked me directly in my eyes, cocked up his left leg and let one rip. Oh. My. God. “That’s it! I’ve had it!”, I angrily declared.

It’s not that this hasn’t happened before, oh gosh no. This incident and many more, very indiscreet, bodily functions often work their way under my nose at some point during the day. I wasn’t surprised. I was just mad.

My eyes began scanning the room like a scene from the Terminator and I had, that moment. Lego pieces wedged in the couch, dirty socks stuffed in shoes, empty laundry baskets yet mounds of sweat-filled clothes piled besides, toilet seat left up and my pet peeve, urine, literally EVERYWHERE but in the bowl!

As my gaze became a glare and I could feel the sensation of my nostrils flaring, he laughed hysterically. The next second, the older bubba waltzed on in, unaware of the dragon lady he was about to face, “Mummmm! Hungry and I want water.”

I should note, my 5-year old has a very adept vocabulary but for some reason when it comes to directing his speech at me, he misses key words like PLEASE and the volume and pitch of his voice is enough to momentarily deafen the strongest of ears. “Maybe they’re just entitled and it’s my fault?” I thought. Well, it surely doesn’t excuse the fact that I am always the one who smells it first.

I just had a moment. I felt claustrophobic. Am I literally the only person in this household who wants to uphold some sort of common decency? Leave a bit of mystery? Enjoy a clean bathroom? Room diffuser? Yeah right! “Oh honey, they’re boys”, they say. Seriously, who are ‘they’? Filthy, crass, dirt-loving, burping experts from another planet.

No, not another planet. My womb! The very womb crafted in my very female body. I couldn’t hold it in any longer. “I AM A GIRL!” I shouted. “Oooh, so you have boobies?” the younger bubba responded.

Yes, I have boobs! Two of them, and you know what else I have? The strong desire to get my nails done and talk to another female about something other than how big your poos are and whether or not they are smelly enough to break out said diffuser. I felt alone. Completely and utterly alone.

I remember growing up and having my mother lovingly brush my hair or sitting in my sister’s room and painting each other’s nails. Well, I painted. She was going through a strange, emo phase and sulked for most of it. But still. The female companion was there.

Fast forward 15 years and now I’m dealing with one boy that tastes his boogers like an after-dinner mint, and the other whom instigates every indecent comment by sharing his wisdom of creative terminology such as fart brain, turd head and booby trap (this is a tale for another time. And yes, by booby, I mean boobs), just to name a few.

My closest girlfriend had moved to the other side of the world a year ago, I no longer had the escape of my female friends at work and every other woman I know would just roll their eyes and elaborate on how their disgusting behaviour is because, well, they’re boys.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my boys. More than anything and everything in this world (Vegemite does take a close second). But I do, and for the most part they’re hilarious and ingenious and keep me on my toes. I can list every dinosaur discovered thanks to the paleontologist living in bedroom 1 and the superhero living in bedroom 2 has taught me just how to combine supersonic powers with athletic durability to complete the ultimate battle move.

My dear husband. The cause of all this mayhem. Yes, I blame him because that’s his testosterone raging through their bodies. He looked over at me in a confused state. He didn’t have to say anything. I knew it. The banshee had been unleashed and he was cocking his head trying to figure out just where his polite, well-composed wife had gone. (disclaimer: in my head I am all those things mentioned, so for the sake of this story let’s just run with it).

He hugged me and in an instant, a calm wave took over my body. The bubba’s ran at me believing this was a signal for stacks on and yes, I was still slightly peeved about the wee I had to clean up, but I embraced it. How could you not? I went from crazy dragon lady to being doted on by three males.

That’s the thing about boys. They may fart at inappropriate times or leave a trail of destruction in their path, particularly just after you’ve managed to clean the previous mess, but they love their mums. I should know.

I’m married to a man who absolutely adores him mum. Not in a weird, uncomfortable way. Just in a very loving and endearing way. It is an unbreakable bond, an unspoken understanding that I will always love and accept you for the gross creatures you sometimes resemble.

I smiled. I had a moment, one of those warm, fuzzy moments and the day rolled on as per usual just with a few more kisses and giggles along the way.

Please Note: As I’m writing this, in the next room all I can hear are the boys screaming, “Oh my gosh, he has boobies that shoot out fire!” No. I don’t know what they’re watching but my husband is sitting with them so surely it can’t be that bad.

I hear him chuckle. *rolls eyes* “Boys will be boys."