I Am The Mother Of Boys

To the lady who looked at me in disgust in the supermarket carpark because I called my 12 year old son an idiot:

I am the mother of boys.  My boys are boisterous and loud and physical.  The reason for the name calling was because they were pushing and shoving in the carpark.  When Master 12 went to kick his brother, his shoe came off his foot, sailed over the top of the car, and landed on my head as I was packing the groceries in the boot.

I am the mother of boys.  Prior to the car park “incident”, my boys had been chasing each other down the dairy aisle, jumping up to whack the paper signs as they went.  This was after they staged a WWE wrestling match in the fruit and veg section, with the ferocity ad dedication worthy of a televised performance.

I am the mother of boys.  If you were affronted by the word idiot, it is lucky you were not witness to the friendly banter in the car on the way home: one called the other a dick.  His comeback?  He called his brother a vagina head.  At this they both laughed uproariously the rest of the car ride home.

I’m guessing you are not the mother of boys?  Are you a mother of girls?  An aunt? A grandmother?  Actually, you know what?  It doesn’t matter. You are a woman.  As a woman, you should recognise the unwritten rule of the sisterhood not to judge another woman who is clearly trying the best she knows how.  Women are supposed to lift each other up, not judge and deride each other.

In any case, please do not waste any more time thinking about it.  You can be safe in the knowledge that I don’t regularly call my boys idiots.  Sometimes I call them worse names.

I am the mother of boys.  I reserve the right to tell them when they are being idiots so they may grow up to be decent, well mannered young men.  The type of young men who are willing to help judgemental old ladies with their groceries or return their trolleys for them.  Then, instead of giving me the stink eye, you can simply give me your thanks.

You’re welcome.

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