The Beautiful Chaos of Raising Boys (And Why I’d Do It All Again)

I was made to be a boy mom. Loud? Check. Messy? Oh yeah. Slightly dangerous? Sometimes. From the moment they arrived, life became a blur of Nerf darts, dirty socks, and peanut butter sandwiches smashed into couch cushions. And I loved it. Every chaotic, hilarious, smelly second.

There were years of Thomas the Train and Blue’s Clues on repeat, punctuated by wrestling matches that rattled the walls and fart contests that cleared the room. Cleaning their bedrooms meant shoving everything under the bed and calling it a day. And the fridge? Never fully closed. Just a boy standing in the open glow, staring into the abyss, swearing there’s “nothing to eat” while holding a cheese stick.

We had “The Bone Shaker” — a rickety, homemade go-kart held together by prayer and duct tape — and countless evenings spent carpooling to football, basketball, and soccer practices like it was my full-time job. Honestly? It was a blast. There wasn’t much drama, unless you count the younger one finally learning to stand up to his overbearing older brother. (Spoiler: they’re now best friends, despite being total opposites.)

And now? We’re turning the corner. They’re in their twenties, launching into their own lives, becoming men. I can feel the shift — I’m no longer the sun they orbit. And that’s okay. I’m bracing myself to one day not be the most important woman in their lives. I'm preparing to welcome daughters-in-law, to cheer them on quietly, and to keep my strong opinions locked safely behind a well-timed smile.

This next season feels a little uncertain, but it’s also full of promise. I look forward to new memories — holidays, weddings, and maybe even grandbabies who’ll remind me how wild and wonderful it was to raise their dads.

I was never perfect. I yelled too much, forgot too many things, and definitely made a few questionable dinner choices. But we’ve always kept things honest — lots of laughter, lots of love, and always asking forgiveness when I stumbled.

They may not need me to kiss scraped knees anymore, but they still need me — just in a different way. And I’ll be right here, cheering from the sidelines, heart full and arms open, ready for whatever comes next.