Pre-ramble… I just read the blog I wrote last night. It was nearly 1 a.m. when I finished it. I couldn’t think very clearly by then and it shows. My brain hurts from reading it again. All this to say that the deep thoughts are getting set aside for now as I have something a little lighter to share today.
In a previous post called, “A Gnome Under Our Home” which I should link here but don’t have time to figure out how, I talked about a little joke I played with my boys about a gnome living under our home. My friend Rudi even wrote a song for us. I’ll get his permission to post the lyrics soon.
Anyway, I imagined that our family would tell stories for years about this little gnome under our home. We would make up adventures about him and the stories would be told year after year becoming part of our family history.
So when we were camping (me and 6 boys) recently, I asked them if they wanted to play the game where you tell the story one sentence at a time. When it’s your turn you add to the story. I gave them ground rules: no pooping parts, you can’t make the gnome die off until everyone gets to go at least two times, and no crude talk. (Can you tell I’ve played this game with boys before?)
I started by saying: There is a gnome underneath our home.
In my girly mind, I saw the little gnome something like a miniature Gandolf, tired but magical and old. Very old and wise. The boys didn’t think that way. Here is how our story unfolded…
The gnome was old and had lived under our house for over 100 years. He could never get out of the crawlspace… unless he farted which launched him right to the second story. One day an owl crawled under the home and shouted, “It stinks in here.” As the gnome dropped down the vents into the crawlspace again, he saw the Owl and told him why it smelled. The owl, who at first seemed nice, was really evil. Before the gnome knew what was happening, little baby owls with Oozies (I have no idea how to spell that), came out from under the owl and started shooting at the gnome. But the gnome was no dummy. He grabbed his rocket launcher and blasted every last owl baby. But when the rocket launcher blasted, the owl babies suddenly turned into little Spider-owls and climbed all over the walls, making it impossible for the gnome to eradicate them…. (Eradicate is my word but it was something similar)
After that, I’m not sure what happened to our little gnome. But let me assure you, it was a blood bath and I’m not sure who survived, if anyone. In fact, the house may have gone up in flames as well. The point is that my little gnome didn’t exactly have the story I wanted him to have. Poor guy. I would have had him eating cookies and singing show tunes. Maybe not, since I’m pretty sure he’s straight. A little joke for my gay friends. Anyway, it was a prime example of the differences between how boys and girls think. I want beauty and song, and they want violence and bodily noises.
Living with these boys is always an adventure and most of the time I love it, unless they’re all doing arm farts at the same time. One at a time is okay, but a symphony of arm farts is a little much.
Next week I get to take my niece shopping for her birthday. I am looking forward to the girl time, but in the end I know I was meant to be the mom of boys – gnomes with rocket launchers and all.