Simon and I fell in love because we have a lot in common, we see the world the same way, and we believe in the same things. But in many ways, we come from different worlds.
He grew up in England, in a house full of boys.
I grew up in the American South, with my mom, my two sisters, and my Dad. Not only were there mostly X chromosomes in our house, my mom was a prim and proper preacher’s wife, who gave us a long list of rude words unbefitting of Southern young ladies and outlawed the discussion of any bodily functions.
Now, I’m getting a taste of what my poor dad suffered as the lone male in a house full of oestrogen. I’m the only woman in our house, and while our boys are still little, I can already see how living in a house full of men is completely different than what I’m used to. I started talking about bodily functions pretty quickly after I left home, and it’s a good thing, too, because I would’ve been in for the shock of my life had I entered into life with three boys straight from my pink-stained home.
There are farts happening constantly: in the bath, at dinner, in my bed at 6am. And it’s hilarious every time. There are poos and bums and willies everywhere.
And the wrestling. 24/7 wrestling. I never knew violence could be a love language, but for my boys, it is. When Daddy gets home from work, I disappear into the kitchen under the guise of cooking dinner, but secretly it is for 30 minutes of respite from the constant climbing and kicking and bundling. That’s when Simon takes over and all I can hear is rolling and crashing and laughter.
In the future, I foresee a lot more wrestling and farting. I also foresee camping trips and football matches and sex talks that – thank God – will mostly be their dad’s territory. It’s a life that will be a lot different from the one I grew up with, but I’m happy for the opportunity to see how the other half live.
(And please don’t tell my mom I said fart.)
