Chel Owens—Guest Blogger

One of the most delightful parts of blogging has been the interesting people I’ve met since I started two and a half years ago. One of those is blogger, writer, and all-around great person, Chel Owens, a devoted wife and mother of SIX boys. (Yes, you read that right!) Chel specializes in writing poetry, short stories, and excellent blog posts that always crack me up with her sparkling wit. You can learn more about her at chelowens.com. Today, I’m pleased to turn over the car keys to my blog to Chel as my first ever guest blogger! Take it away, Chel.

Writer/Blogger Chel Owens

Chel with One of Her Precious Boys

Photo Credit to Edwin Ariel Valladares on Pexels

There’s something sweet and innocent about children. They speak sentiments like, “I love you, Mom. And, I love farting.” They inspire you to protect vital parts when they go in for a tackle hug. And, most of all, they cause you to ask, “When’s the last time you showered?“

At least, that’s the ‘sweet’ and ‘innocent’ ’round these parts.

When I gave birth to my children, innocence wasn’t my first faulty assumption. The first was that I would be able to correct any behavior. Unfortunately, this has been proven patently false whenever any of my offspring hears the word, “Balls.”

…Perhaps I should back up a bit. Hello; my name is Chel. I enjoy writing, reading, sleeping, and eating. I don’t get to do much of any of those (besides eating) because I have six children. Specifically, I have six boys.

Our Number One rule, established as soon as we had two male minors, is No Heads, No Necks.

Sometimes I think of engraving a cutesy sign with a list of our house rules and hanging it (artistically) over the holes in the walls. Can’t you picture NO HEADS, NO NECKS in a calligraphy font set in pine? Even if I made such a list, what would follow? At least a couple are not appropriate for public viewing because they involve the #1 physical attribute that makes my children male.

And -oh, boy!- am I constantly commenting on those rules.

But let’s discuss less-pleasant things, like smell. I’m not referring to farting. The volume (both kinds) of human flatulence seems wholly tied to impressing or offending others.

The Smell, however, is real. Frankly, I didn’t notice much of an unnatural odor until we started traipsing in teenage territory -because there comes a time in every young man’s life when we, the affectionate parents, lean down and say, “You need to start washing every day. And, look! This is called deodorant. Here’s how you put it on.”

Tact is not abundant ’round these parts, either.

Come to think of it, nor are pants.

Once in my younger mothering days, the doorbell rang and I couldn’t get to it quickly. My son ran and opened the door …in only his briefs. I came shortly afterward and knew, from the poor salesman’s response, that he did not have children of his own. Stuttering an apology, I pushed the confused child toward his bedroom and repeated what I’d been telling him all morning, “Go get some pants on!”

See what I mean about appropriate rules? Just imagine what Get some pants on would look like hanging near Home, Sweet Home. Maybe it would balance out if we added another of my reprimands: Underwear is not a rug. Yes, when the tighty-whities are not keeping boys semi-decent, they are attempting to do so for the floor.

It’s all about aim, you see. The boys can’t quite make it to the laundry hamper. They can’t quite make it to the shoe bin or the coat rack after school. They can’t quite get wrappers in a garbage. They most definitely can’t get everything where it goes where the bathroom is concerned.

Photo Credit to Monstera on Pexels

Maybe other families don’t have that issue. Here, we’ve determined to paint the remainder of the bathroom walls a certain shade of yellow…

Meanwhile, back at rules and expectations, I might be able to etch one about another standard ’round here: weapons. Only Point a Gun at Someone if He’s Holding a Weapon and Playing The Gun Game. Initially inspired by a naïve No Pointing Guns at People, the rule changed for practical reasons: I learned that a one-year-old will point his toast at something and say, “Pew, pew!” That child needs no others around nor needs exposure to anyone’s shooting in order to turn his toast deadly. Like a newborn rooting for milk, some boys simply love guns.

Before anyone gets up-in-arms about toddler armistice, know that our guns are of the foam dart-shooting variety. We’ve purchased enough plastic firearms to support the Nerf corporation through a Christmas rush.

Photo Credit to cottonbro on Pexels

Not all of the boys share an affection for weaponry, naturally, but all share a heightened level of physical interaction. In short, they fight. This means poking, pushing, slugging, slapping, shoving, wrestling, spanking, tickling, kicking, tripping, chasing, and sitting on. I told you: heads and necks. Even the toddler giggles and dives into the flailing mess of near-fratricide on the living room floor.

When not bent on imitating the Blue-Footed Booby, the boys are often bent over a computer keyboard or game controller. During their daily allotment of screen time, it’s Minecraft, Minecraft, and more Minecraft. We even have a rule for Minecraft: No killing sentient creatures. I started this after one son continually spawned Villagers over a pit of lava. If you’re gonna kill, son, it needs to be for virtual steaks or gunpowder.

Maybe there’s some merit to the sign idea after all. We recently moved to a house with more land and more trees -some of them pine. After we realize my dream to build an army-style obstacle course, there’s sure to be scraps left over.

Now, all that’s left is that calligraphy font…

Do YOU have a wood engraver?

©2021 Chel Owens