Thursday, April 5, 2012

In case it hasn't yet been made abundantly clear, I just need to say that I live in a house full of boys.  My children are four and two years old, and then there's my husband, and of course the dog is a boy.  I kind of feel gypped because we got rid of the girl dog and then got a boy.  That's when I became outnumbered.

Part of living with all boys means lots of boy messes.  Any mother of boys who are toilet trained can attest to this: they almost NEVER aim correctly.  There is almost ALWAYS pee somewhere on the toilet or on the floor near the toilet.  And it's not just the little ones that do this, either.  I'm fairly certain Scott does it too, but I don't have a way to prove it short of busting out my CSI skills.  Anyway, I digress.  The point is, I'm surrounded by testosterone and I love it.

Why do I love it?  Because Benjamin has started calling me "Your Majesty".

That's right, the boy knows how to treat a girl.  He can consider me royalty all he wants (although most days I feel more like a servant than royalty).  I am totally ok with that.  In fact, I encourage it.  Not only will future girlfriends swoon over his romantic ways, but he understands his place in this house.  I ask him to hold something for me, and he says, "of course, Your Majesty".  I tell him we need to turn left when we're out on our walk, and he says, "yes, Your Majesty".   Every command or request I give of him is met with "yes, Your Majesty".  I am loving this.  Of course, I usually answer with something like, "thank you, Your Highness", and he gets a kick out of that.  But that's ok, he can be the prince.

Because Mommy is the Queen. 

Never forget that, sweetie. 

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