Real Boy Mom

When Jeff came out of his office this evening, he proclaimed that I finally seemed like a "real boy mom." It was hard to know whether he was referring to the pile of books under my feet, which had recently been swept off the bookshelf, or the smear of someone else's lunch on my sweater, or the makeshift baby gate I made out of painter's tape. He must have seen the puzzlement on my face, because he felt the need to further enlighten me. He said he knew I was finally a real boy mom by the 5 gallon stock pot bubbling on the stove with our dinner, that I had to stand on a stool to reach into to stir.

And here I feel I need to give some background information. Jeff grew up in a home with big guys, who were big eaters. I did not. Jeff's mom would make one pan of meatloaf per male inhabitant, and those would be eaten for afternoon snacks while the boys were asking what was for dinner. One (smaller) pan of meatloaf would last several meals at our house. So, when Jeff and I got married, he thought I was kidding around when I would make enough for the two of us for one meal. He wanted to know where all the food had gone, and I didn't understand what on earth he was talking about. He has been teasing me about my small servings for almost fifteen years. But, as I watch my seven-year-old go back for seconds and thirds at almost every meal, and clean up everybody else's leftovers, I am beginning to finally understand. Doubling recipes is essential. Tripling them is even better. 20-quart stock pots are not novelties. And trips to Sam's are not optional. I am finally starting to become a real boy mom.