I have a little secret to share. Once upon a time, I dreamed of raising mama’s boys. There was something delightful about their dependence on me. I reveled in doing little things for them.
Picture this: me, sleepwalking at 2 AM, juggling nursing a baby, calming a toddler with nightmares, and assisting another boy on his bathroom expedition. I took pride in turning down help, insisting on taking all my little ones to doctor visits and running errands solo, even if it drove me a tad bonkers. I’d whip up three separate dinners, pick up toys because it was simpler, zip up my son’s jacket when he was five, and tie his shoes until he was ten.
“Can you get me a snack? Can you pack my backpack? Can you, can you, can you…?” The answer was always a resounding “Yes! Mommy can!” and boy, did Mommy deliver. Nobody else could cut those crusts just right, whip up the fluffiest scrambled eggs, or ensure that Spiderman shirt was clean for daily wear like I could. I might as well have whispered, “Please, never leave me!” while tucking them in at night.
Was it a bit dysfunctional and codependent? Absolutely. Would I do it all over again? Probably.
We were a snug little crew, full of love and need, and it felt perfect. But now that my boys are 6, 9, and 12, my perspective has shifted.
Fast forward to imagining them at 35… living at home, of course. I can see the hair scruff decorating bathroom sinks, socks and underwear strewn about, and a chorus of snoring emanating from every room. The thought of gas inhalation from all those late-night snacks is almost unbearable. And can you imagine the humiliation when they burst in on me while I’m in the bathroom, demanding justice over a hair gel heist or a Doritos shortage?
I might as well set up a cot by the washing machine because that’s where I’d be spending my nights. Morning coffee? Forget it! I’d be dragging them out of bed for work—if they even had jobs—and cooking eggs in three different styles.
Suddenly, the charm of raising mama’s boys didn’t seem so attractive anymore. So, I’ve been gradually loosening the apron strings, giving my boys more independence and responsibility. Now, they can get themselves dressed, wash their hands, and tie their own shoes. They tackle homework without my constant reminders, handle the recyclables, and empty the dishwasher. They even put their clothes away—most of the time.
Well, okay, sometimes.
It’s definitely a work in progress. But I’m learning that you can’t disrupt the natural order of things. Kids grow up, and it’s my job to guide them toward responsibility before gently nudging them out into the world.
Of course, they still have to call me daily, visit weekly, and marry only those girls I approve of. I might not be aiming for mama’s boys anymore, but mama’s men just might do the trick.
For more insights on parenting and the journey of raising kids, check out this blog post that offers great tips!
In summary, while the idea of raising mama’s boys was blissful at first, the reality of adult children living at home is a humorous reminder of the importance of fostering independence. By giving my boys the tools they need to thrive, I’m nurturing them into responsible adults—though they’ll always be my little ones at heart.