Boys are a different breed. Ask any mother of the male gender, especially if she has a couple of boys with no sister in between to tame them. There’s a wildness in boys that just doesn’t appear in girls. And sometimes we moms are left standing with our mouths agape, wondering what planet our bundle of energy came from.

My youngest two boys are only 18 months apart. Several years ago I took them to a Mommy and Me Music course. One day while we were waiting for class to begin my little guys started wrestling on the floor. I honestly don’t know where my head was. Wrestling is not appropriate behavior for a classroom experience, but for some reason it didn’t faze me. I didn’t even notice it until the teacher (mother of two girls), said very sweetly, "Umm . . . is that okay?"

To which I smiled and replied, "Oh yeah. They’re just playing like they do at home."

Thinking back on that moment I hang my head in embarrassment. I guess after watching this male bonding ritual repeated so often on my living room floor, it just seemed normal.

I have three boys. Active boys. They’re smart enough and I’m glimpsing some musical talent, but they aren’t the studious, musical type. They’re the rambunctious, ball throwing, body banging, wrestling type.

I blame their father. After all, before the boys even crawled he would pretend they could knock him down. He’d take their little hands, form a fist, and help them hit him. Then he’d crash to the floor, making all kinds of male grunting sounds, and our babies would belly laugh. As soon as they were mobile the wrestling began—with Jerry letting our kids win, of course. It wasn’t long until my husband had four children climbing all over him. (Yes, even my daughter was tricked into thinking this was fun, though at least she outgrew it.) I’d watch their antics, thinking how great it was that my children had such wonderful experiences with their dad.

That was before their wrestling broke my favorite knick-knacks—and before the boys got big enough to shake the floor and pop the lights bulb hanging from the ceiling below them. These days I find myself often saying, "Take it downstairs or outside, boys."

There were times, especially when the boys were smaller, that I struggled not to be embarrassed by their wiggly, energetic behavior. For a while I quit taking them to the theater or other activities that required them to be still. Long church services were grueling. I prayed for short sermons and good children’s programming. But inevitably one of them would wiggle at an inopportune time, leaving my face a bright pink.

After one of these embarrassing moments, an older homeschool mom told me a story that eased my shame. Though she has 9 children, she didn’t have a son until child number four. "I used to get frustrated with my friends who had boys," she said. "I would watch their sons’ behavior and wonder why they didn’t get them under control." She gave me a sweet, reassuring smile and finished with a twinkle in her eye. "Then God gave me a boy."