Raising Brobarians

Two sets of dirt-crusted hands double-fist pretzel sticks. Wedging them in between their gums and top lips, they each proudly announce their new walrus status and cackle together wildly. I laugh along with them. They really are hilarious.

Sometimes—okay, most times—I forget to make them wash their hands before lunch. I tend to feel like a failure at instilling basic habits. They aren’t the cleanest forks in the drawer, if you know what I mean. But they are happy and healthy, so I don’t worry too much.

The term “brobarian” comes from a children’s book by Lindsay Ward, and I absolutely love it because it perfectly sums up our reality in one word. Raising brobarians is a strategic art form that involves mud-slinging, building block designs, wall holes, chipping paint, broken furniture, multiple urgent care visits, constant loud noises, and a plethora of Band-Aids. Daily discoverings of new physical skills keep me covering my eyes while listening intently for “the cry.” You know, the one that usually signals possible blood flow or broken appendages. Every night after they are tucked safely in bed I sigh with relief. We survived another day. If I could drink a glass of wine in celebration I absolutely would … except that I’m very pregnant with a third boy. Lord, help me.

They test their physical limits constantly. One favorite pastime involves racing down the stairs on their stomachs face-first. Most recently—while I was unaware—my two-and-a-half-year-old rode his tricycle to the top of the basement stairs … and went for it. To the surprise of no one, it didn’t end successfully. But the tears dried quickly and before I knew it, he was climbing the stairs to the second level, following his four-year-old brother, who happened to be dragging that very same tricycle behind him. They were plotting a second attempt.

Y’all, sometimes I just can’t even.

The thing is, I delight in almost all of it—the mud, sweat, trampoline flips, monster truck crashing, transformer creations, tree climbing escapades … I could go on. But I didn’t start out that way. After my first son was born I was very much the protective, shielding, “uh, no way” kind of new mom. After multiple injuries, death-defying leaps, and the birth of my second son, I came to realize that the reality of raising feral boys did not coincide with my overly-cautious mentality. And if I was going to survive with even half my sanity still intact, something was going to have to change—and it probably wouldn’t be them.

My turning point came after I had my second son and I finally internalized the truth that in order to raise these boys into strong, independent, kind-hearted, courageous men, I was going to have to let them take risks as children. It’s a developed skill. If you attempt to squelch the desire early on, oftentimes fear sets in, which has an enormous impact on their psyche. It was becoming apparent to me that my oldest son’s initial years of always hearing “no”, “be careful”, and “that’s not a good idea”, as well as watching me rush in to “save him” had caused him to develop a sense of fear in his own capabilities. His desire to try new things began to wane. That crushed me. After my second son was born I vowed to myself that I would relax and let go. Prayer suddenly became central to my own personal survival.

It’s a difficult, internal battle that I still soldier through every single day. Every time I see them climb onto the roof of the playset in our backyard I hold my breath. I know they are physically capable of doing it—they’ve done it successfully dozens of times—but still my mind can’t help but play through all the worst possible scenarios. And to be honest, I’m not sure that will ever stop. Parents worry. It’s what they do. But there is also freedom in allowing risk and encouraging their sense of adventure. Boundaries are certainly necessary—my boys know very clearly when they’ve reached theirs. But as they grow older those lines slowly inch further out.

Bruises and scrapes are inevitable. Even bloody, gaping wounds I have come to expect. But my boys are alive in their activity and play. And my heart is full knowing that they are recognizing their strengths and limits, fearlessly pushing themselves to try new things, and that their curiosity and love for learning are soaring.

I don’t want to raise anxious, fearful men. I want sons who are capable, confident, and willing to step out onto the front lines of life when necessary. So I may end each day with a few more grey hairs and worry wrinkles than the previous one, and the boys may go to bed with bruised foreheads and new scars. But the hope and knowledge I cling to is that God, in all His power and goodness, is also walking alongside us in this journey. He has set purpose in their hearts, and my ultimate prayer is that they will discover it and live it out—fully awake and alive.


Guest post written by Amy Twito. Amy is a Jesus follower, wife, mother to three boys, former high school teacher, and ashamed latte drinker. Her thoughts and stories can be followed on Facebook or on her blog at www.mothertobrobarians.com.