My husband, eight-year-old son and I enthusiastically share our life with four amazing young men who’ve adopted us. I’m surrounded by testosterone. For this womanist it has been anadventure shifting my focus from a female centered life to having everything revolve around men.
In our frat house, I mean home, the penis reigns supreme. Ye ole merry men yield to its desires. Since I don't have said appendage, I'm free from its mental influence. However, I constantly am cleaning up after urine fountains, cautioning against penis made decisions and sometimes hiding from one.
I’ve been studying my boys. Males, or aliens as I like to refer to them, areunpredictable. They spontaneously disrobe, punch one another, jump from dangerous heights and emit nuclear bodily gases. They’re a confusing tribe. I’ve tried but still don't understand the charm in standing in front of the refrigerator, half dressed, eating leftovers.
My aliens have asimple hierarchy. In most contests the loudest rules. However, this structure falls apart when money must be spent. Then depending upon what's at stake he with money rules unless he makes the mistake of showing it off; then his money is forcibly taken from him. There is no rule of law amongst the Y chromosome set. Foolishly I've tried to impart codes and boundaries. That only leads to me receiving one of the dismissive"You don’t get it" side-glances.
One would think that it’sgreat being the only woman. I don't have to share my belongings but do haveaccess to their stuff. I get to take the most time in the bathroom and there's always someone to hold a door open or to pull out a chair. Well, the truth isthat one alien takes longer in the bathroom than a primping prom queen. More often than I care to recall each gentleman assumes another will hold the door andI'm abandoned at the threshold. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not all crazy. Thereare glorious times when everything comes together. Occasionally I'm the queenof the Boyz. On those days I bask in the glow of the gorgeous, smart, chivalrous knights of our wobbly, round table.
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