Rachel Balducci - Raising Boys Is a Full-Contact Sport

The Grass Is Always Greener

It is the fortieth anniversary of my mom and dads wedding. My siblings and I have decided to celebrate with a party. We will be inviting a few hundred of their closest friends, and because it is spring, we are having the party in my backyard.

My backyard. The one I use to corral my five sons.

The thing about my backyard is, its very proud of its heritage. My grass screams at the top of its botanical lungs that BOYS LIVE HERE, and youd better not forget it.

How can I forget it, is what Id like to know. Seriously, I ask myself this question nearly every single day. How, I wonder aloud, can I mask the reality of my life? Its not that I want to hide the fact that I have boys, but some days it would be nice not to have the lawn advertise our genetics.

One evening as I walked around my yard to prepare for the party, I made note of the state of things. There are bald spots in the grassI dont know the exact number because there are so many spots that Im inclined to just count the grass instead. There is a giant mound of dirt in one corner of the yard, where the boys go to mine for treasure or dig to China. There is a lovely birdfeeder attached to the garageit hangs at waist level and gives the impression it is for the boys avian enjoyment. Really, I put it that low to cover a giant hole created by an arrow gone terribly astray.

Yes, this yard is home to flying projectiles and sailing basketballs and whirling baseballs. It hosts soccer games and bonfires and the occasional bocce tournament.

This yard has been rode hard and put up wet. It screams boy , and that is a difficult sound to drown out.

You can tell a bunch of boys live here. Its not that we display the Jolly Roger or post Beware signs on the front gate. We dont even have a rope swing coming off an upstairs windowthough my boys have been drawing up plans for one. Its all because of our yard.

I remember a conversation I had with a friend who has one child, a precious little boy who was then approaching toddlerhood.

Yes, she admitted, somewhat embarrassed, there is now a bald spot in the sod where we caught him digging. The hole is almost the size of a quarter! And Ill tell you right now, that sentence moved me to tears, on so many levels. Could a hole really be only the size of a quarter? Ive never seen one that small. And only one hole? How very curious. And sodwhat is this thing of which you speak?

Of course, Im painfully aware of what sod is, how I dont have any, and how Id really like some. I think all it would take is some lush greens to make me forget every one of my cares in this world.

Unfortunately, my husband has no interest in investing in something that will be gone (but not forgotten) in a matter of months. Have you seen, hell ask me, how our boys behave outside? Are you fully aware of their tunneling capabilities?

Its true those boys can dig. Its quite impressive, actually. Our boys are some of the most ardent digging machines I have ever seen. If you give them a shovel, they will seek out dirt and excavate before you can say Mike Mulligan.

For a while, when the boys were very little, the digging didnt bother me. I would send them into the backyard, and if they asked for a shovel, I would generously oblige. My rules were simple: 1) everyone must be wearing closed-toed shoes, and 2) no one is to take out his frustration with shovel in hand. While I agree that a lizards tail does indeed grow back, Id rather not find out if the same would be true of your brothers finger.

Off they would go, my precious little boys, to spend hours shoveling and exploring across the yard. I would feel slightly bad on those evenings when my husband would arrive home from work after dark and be forced to navigate through a field of divot land mines.

This is a bad idea, he would say, rubbing his ankle while leaning against the kitchen wall. Its dangerous. And our yard is going to look terrible.

Its fine, I would say, and then tease him for being so uptight. What boy doesnt like to dig? Id ask, and then Id remind my husband that he probably did the same thing when he was a boy.

The thing about the digging was, it bought me timeprecious, much-needed time, with those boys outside and not in the house literally climbing up the walls. For each hole they dug in the yard, I got thirty minutes of blissful quiet inside.