Our favorite Marine came to town and in preparation of his arrival, my youngest punk has been watching You Tube videos on Marine Combat Martial Arts so that he could try out his moves on him.
My youngest punk ate it up. Every. Moment. Of. It.
Like a sponge, he absorbed everything our favorite Marine said to him.
Our favorite Marine brought some souvenirs to my punks. I think he’s adopted them as little brothers. They love talking all this testosterone talk with him. It makes my head spin, but it’s good stuff.
Do you see my punks face? That’s admiration, right there.
But boys can’t be tame boys for long. My other punk (21) had to jump in (in red). He couldn’t take not being a part of the action. Feeling protective of his younger brother, my oldest punk (15) jumped in (in turquoise). Our favorite Marine stepped out of the way… because he’s a Marine Ninja and doesn’t want to hurt my punks (thank you D). My youngest is fiesty, and my oldest is giggly, and my other punk is very competitive and can’t let his younger brothers win… ever. Do you see the determination on his face?
Once the testosterone begins to flow, there is no telling what can happen. It’s exhilarating and scary all at the same time.
My other punk (heaving and gasping for air) steps out of the fight (that’s called age, son). It’s left to my two punks. “I’m known to scream things like, “get him!” and “size doesn’t matter!” I’m always for the baby of the family… because I’m the baby of the family. No issues
with my older punk brother here.
But I have been informed that indeed… size DOES matter.
And people wonder why mamas of boys are always tired… *sigh*