Where boys are kings

It was a Lord of the Flies kind of afternoon.

The kind when I could present no compelling reason for keeping clothes on.

My big boy had an idea: "I want to build a Christmas tree. A tall Christmas tree--one that reaches all the way to the ceiling!"

So I taped together as much paper as I could manage to stretch across the patio and mixed up some gloppy craft paint.



Then we started to paint. Calvin spent some time working with the brush. Then I encouraged him to use his hands and fingers.



It was beautiful and deliberate. Then the baby joined us. From there, the path to construction quickly turned into destruction.



Paint was consumed by mouth, water buckets were dumped, little green hand prints and knee streaks circled the patio and ascended the steps into the mud room.



My efforts at containing the mess and continuing on with the art project failed. As big brother joined little brother in his hands-and-knees exploration of the facets of our back yard, I found myself -- once a key player in this afternoon production -- suddenly blending into the background.

My feminine parental role became unrecognized, undesired and irrelevant.



Pumpkins were bludgeoned. Sticks were wielded. Mud puddles were made, then slogged through. Bodies were painted. Siblings encouraged one another in their feats of strength and violence against vegetable victims.



At one point, I think Henry's baby babble could have been loosely translated to:

"Squash the gourd! Spill its guts!"



I snapped a few photos, then stepped indoors and listened for a while. They didn't need me in this imaginative play scenario, and to be honest, I'm not sure I had anything to contribute.

I'm glad they have each other.

I'm also glad that when they made their way back inside, they welcomed the sudsy bath I had drawn for them and willingly snuggled with me when they were dried off and tired.

They may rule the wild outdoors, but when they step inside, they're in my kingdom and I am their queen.