Lonely Estrogen

Y’all, the testosterone in my house runneth over, and I am the lonely estrogen outcast. I feel like I have a gang of gremlins living under my roof that gang up on me. There’s a ride by farting near me, which is uncool, and I 100% blame my father for it. So we, my angelic self and my gremlin husband, try to teach them manners, which my father finds joy in blowing to smithereens. Gotta love grandparents, right?

I had a sentimental, estrogen-filled moment this week. I had handwritten notes to both my boys, attached them to their bedroom doors, and then returned to work. I thought it was a sweet gesture, and I think it’s important to let our kids know that we love them, believe they are awesome, and blah, blah, blah.


As I’m finishing up my workday, I hear the bus roll by outside, then the gremlins enter. Backpacks fly, shoes are kicked off (next to the shoe rack – lord help us if they ever actually put them on it, I might stroke out), and the TV is turned on full blast. I finish my work a little while later and stroll out of my den, then I casually wait at the kitchen table as I browse through a magazine. I just know they’re gonna love the notes. I was the epic, loving mom today. I’m so great. Yada, yada, yada. All those thoughts are rolling around in my mind as I sit there.

A little while later, the youngest gremlin goes to his bedroom and comes back to the kitchen with the note in his hand, and I smile, which quickly fades as he crumples it up and throws it in the trash. I pointed at the trash can, an incredulous look on my face as I told him I took the time to handwrite him a note, which he just threw away. Finally, the gremlin looked at me with a serious look on his face and said, ‘Mom, we’re not girls. We love you because you feed us.’

My mouth pops open and shut a few times like a fish, then I realize I still have the other gremlin to count on. He’s older and wiser, right? I walk to the hallway, and I see the note tossed carelessly on the floor, and I stop mid-stride, gaping at the paper. &#U+1F926;


That’s when I realized the youngest gremlin was probably right. The only thing I need to do is feed them, and they’re happy.

Maybe the old saying was right after all. Perhaps the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Pfft. Whatever. Where’s the estrogen at? These testosterone-filled gremlins make no sense to me.

The estrogen in this household is lonely at times, but there are moments when a light from heaven shines down, soothing my soul. Last night, I secured the youngest gremlin’s fealty when he’s older for $20,000 a year if I happen to make it as an uber-famous author. You see, the youngest gremlin is proud because he scored a 98% on his state test, which is amazing. I just like to remind the gremlins when they are older that no matter how smart they thought they were, their momma was smarter.


To make my week a little brighter, I stumbled upon the video of the grandfather gremlin learning how to twerk. *rubs hands together* <insert diabolical laugh> So, for your enjoyment, here is a video of the gremlin patriarch twerking after my niece showed him how. Yep, this is my dad. (If you see zero blog activity over the next few weeks, he might’ve killed me for this.)

Twerking Gremlin Patriarch


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