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My husband tells me I'm becoming a boy.
Mind you, I still have boobs, so I'm not always sure I believe him when he tells me this, but I am, apparently, starting to develop a pretty good liking for boy things. For instance, I'm always thrilled to enter the boy half of the toy aisle. Those toys are awesome! Barbie has nothing on the Transformers Bumblebee that's now saving our house from destruction.

Dress up? Trust me. Way more cool with a superhero cape. And there's no stinking baking going on in this house, let me tell you. Every time I try, I'm pulled outside for a junior entomology lesson on the horrible spiders trying to make a winter home on our porch. It could be that I called one "cool" not long ago. Earwigs? Not quite as terrifying as they used to be, but I see no good reason for those pincher things on their butts.

Mothering boys takes some energy.

In the last week, my boys and I have rescued a lost puppy and witnessed the amazing technicolor action that happens when Rolos and blue crayons go unnoticed in little boy pants pockets until Mommy empties the clothes dryer. Matthias just finished standing up in his little lawn chair and howling like Tarzan. Presently, these goofballs are roaring around the living room, with "Babysaurus" being chased by "Jacksonsaurus."

"Mom!" Jackson exclaimed. "Tell him the Jacksonsaurus has gotcha!"

"Matthias," I replied, "the Jacksonsaurus has got you!"

"No! Got-cha."

See? There's even a boy-specific language to learn.

Before this day is over, I'll have vacuumed my floors three times (hopefully not vacuuming up a loose pair of shorts like I did a few days ago), cleaned up several toys with pointy parts that really hurt bare feet, and removed sliced grapes from at least three places in the house where they don't belong.

At church a few weeks back, I asked a father of four boys, including a set of twins, whether life ever gets simpler when you're raising someone who clearly belongs in a scene from The Jungle Book.

"No," he smiled.

I scoffed.

"I'm sorry," he said, fake-seriously. "I'm not going to be the one to give you false hope."

I wandered off, contemplating my fate. Then, I looked down at my own baby, whose amazing fussing action was the reason I'd been in the hall and able to talk to that father in the first place.

These kids are who they are, and statistics have proven they're not going to change.

So if I can't beat them, I'll join them.