by Kristine K. Lowder
Foreword
Or
"How I Got To be this Way--I Think"
Ever look back on a long stretch of life's highway and wonder how you got where you are? I'm still trying to figure that out. More specifically, how did this Mom Stuff start? One minute I was a perfectly sane aerospace professional, gleefully juggling competitive analyses, customer profiles, marketing reports and NASA execs like a circus pro. Nine months and one Cesarean delivery later, my rapier wit dulled to Jell-O, my spit and polish precision wilted like a wet Pampers. I could barely spell NASA, let alone find it!
It took about seven more years for my husband, the Big Guy, and I to reach full blown Guy-itis. That's a rare and critical condition brought on by sheer stupidity and an unusually long stretch of cold weather. But hey! If four baby boys in less than eight years doesn't rank as Purple Heart criteria, what does?
Accordingly, it wasn't a big surprise when my friend Peg urged me to write a book. "With all the Guy experience you've accrued raising and homeschooling four boys, you have decades worth of material available--maybe centuries!"
With twenty-five years of marriage under my belt and my very own "Male Farm" to manage, I figure I know a few things about Guys. Actually, I look at it this way: our house holds enough testosterone to power a Third World Country. Sure, being outnumbered five to one has its ups and downs, but you'd be surprised at how a little ingenuity and treachery can even the odds.
So I thought about Peg's suggestion. When she encouraged me to "write this stuff down", Peg started something: a collection of first-hand observations and experiences about those wild and wonderful humanoids among us known collectively and affectionately as "Guys".
"What's so great about Guys?" some may huff, whetting their appetites as well as their axes. "My Guy-less life is just fine and dandy, and I plan to keep it that way."
"Fine and dandy," I say. For non-guys who have one or an entire skeleton's worth of bones to pick with Guys, "go find another book." Lord knows there's no dearth of Guy-bashing tomes out there. This isn't one of them.
Instead, this collection chronicles some of the Real Guy experiences I've managed to live through to date--more or less. Besides, you may know a Real Guy. I know at least five, starting with the Big Guy, and our quartet of sons, ages "Mawwwwwwwwm!" to Knows Everything.
They epitomize the kind of Guys who can make wives, mothers, daughters, sisters, aunts, nieces and even Pepé le Pew feel like their entire world revolves around us. These Guys offer their own coats in the cold, help non-guys struggling with heavy boxes, overloaded strollers or enough groceries to feed the crew of the U.S.S. Abraham Lincoln--that's an aircraft carrier, a BIG one, for all you clueless non-guys. The Guys I write about are the type who may risk life and limb by chivalrously opening a door for a female who may or not be as courteous in return.
These Real Guys fix leaky faucets, hang pictures, endure chick flicks without complaint--well, mostly--and let Mom commandeer the TV remote. They may toil long hours in often thankless jobs to keep a roof over their families' heads and put food on the table, willingly forego the All-Star game to cheer a child's Little League contest, or stay home with the kids so Mom can have lunch out with the ladies.
Real Guys may not know it all. They may have more questions than answers. They may fail and fall, but they refuse to quit. When they've been cut off at their emotional knees, Guys pick themselves up, dust themselves off and march forward on bleeding stumps if need be. Because they're Real Guys.
While this book is a light-hearted look at them and their world, this collection also salutes the Big Guy and those like him who cement a protective wall of security and commitment around their loved ones as no one else can. These Guys stand on that wall, often alone, and patrol, putting any lurking menace or stalking evil on notice with, "Not on my watch. You'll have to come through me first, and I'm here for keeps."
So here's to Guys--those walking wonders among us, and to those that love them--especially when we're both nearly human.
Let's get one thing straight. I like Guys. I'm married to the finest Guy I know. What can I say? He has good taste. Although I like Guys as a species--well, most of the time--I have to admit that XY chromosome combos can produce some of the cotton-pickinest creations known to man. Or is that "known to women"? Marvelous and mysterious as Guys are, my Occasional Expert vantage point has taught me one timeless truth about Guys: they're different.
As any non-guy can tell you, for instance, Guys see the world differently than do normal people. Example: "Honey, do you want to watch a Chick Flick or a Guy Movie tonight?"
Is he serious?
The latter usually involves Arnold Schwarzenegger, machine guns, car crashes, explosions and enough tattoos to decorate the entire Seventh Fleet. I've also noticed that most Guy Movies are a little thin on a few literary necessities such as an intelligible plot.and dialogue that's something other than monosyllabic. But hey, who cares so long as there's lots of action, right?
Other ways Guys are different from non-guys include perspectives, emotions, reactions, timing, priorities, and personal hygiene standards, to name a few minor contrasts.
"Gentlemen, this is a toothbrush," I instruct my four sons morning, noon and night, brandishing Oral-B brushes, minted dental floss and enough tubes of Pokemon toothpaste to choke a walrus. "Teeth brushing isn't supposed to be a semi-annual event," I explain. You'd think The Guys would get it by now.
And what about those other omnipresent Guy-isms like grunting a response to a question. "Is that a 'Yes' grunt or a 'No' grunt?" I ask. I'm never entirely sure.
Also, I've never understood why firing up the vacuum cleaner during the final quarter of a tied Super Bowl game constitutes a hanging offense. And I know our furnace functions above Siberia degrees--or can at least warm the house up enough to stop my teeth from chattering while everyone else is running around barefoot and in bermudas.
And what about Guy Math? How do two hot dogs + one can of Pringles - apples and orange + a banana split = lunch? Or two dirty socks + one hamper + one washer and dryer = one clean sock?
Then there's the hormone thing. Don't get me started; this is a G-rated book. More or less.
Speaking of getting started, I don't know how many times I have one of my five fellas figured to precise, detailed specifications and he suddenly goes Guy on me. Poof! Whammo! Ay! Yi! Yi! Faster than I can cry in my root beer, he's changed course mid-stream and I'm beating a hasty retreat to the nearest chick flick.
Naturally, my Guys claim that when it comes to girls, the Different Sword cuts both ways. This assessment is accompanied by the obligatory rolling of the eyes and the shaking of their collective heads. As if XX chromosomal combos are some kind of Major Mystery.
