I grew up surrounded by testosterone. With three brothers and a dad in the military, the color pink wasn’t a part of any decor or found behind my closet doors in my house.
I heard a lot of, “Buck it up, Becky”, and “Mom, make her quit crying.” This was usually the aftermath of, “She won’t quit talking. Mom, make her quit talking.”
It could have been worse, though. At least the testosterone-laden men weren’t the shouting at the football game on television types, the revving up of muscle cars kind, or the noodlin’ group. Not that those things are wrong…at all…seriously…
The only reprieve from the stinky testosterone was my mommy.
She was/is beautiful, graceful, and kind. She knows how to cook chicken a thousand ways, how to bandage a knee (that doesn’t really need to be bandaged) and how to sew me the eye lit pillowcases I just had to have when I was 12.
But, as an adult, I can’t imagine my life without her to call when I’m having a bad day, a good day, or just a bleh day.
She is my best friend and she is all mine for the next week. Well, kind’ve. I’ve still got to share her with the now-less-stinky-testosterone. I’ll take what I can get.