Oh the Testosterone is Getting Thick in Here

So, I'm sitting here just being the mixed bag of emotions that I am;
excited about my mom finally coming to visit, sad that my husband
isn't here right now, perplexed as to why I can never seem to get
my creative juices flowing on my book like I can when I'm blogging,
slightly psychotic, yet thankful to the old high school not-real-friend
that gave me fodder for yesterday's blog post. And then boredom
sets in with my lunatic sons.
Hamo, the 14 year old came in and asked if it would be okay if he
and Ismail, the 10 year old play together for a while. Normally, he
wouldn't have asked except that Ismail was grounded to the couch
because he had been aggravating Aiman and Samiya in the girls
room when they were trying to make an imaginary restaurant and
he kept stealing their table. So I tell him yes...but after another 5
minutes of his timeout. Hamo offered a nice quiet (yea, right) arm-
wrestling match. I started to smell this funky, aroma that I couldn't
quite identify.
"You're not a man! I'M a man. You're a girl." Hamo shouted.
"You're the girl, soft boy!" Ismail shouted back.
"Let's see who's the man here, Wussy." Hamo challenged.
Begin full blown wrestling match on the dining room floor. Thank
God Samiya and Aiman dragged the table into her room for their
restaurant business. "You're no man! You're a coward." shouted one.
"How do you figure, Sissy?" yelled the other.
"Only a coward kicks a man when he's down!"
"Only a loser would go down in the first place. I'm just kicking you
to keep you down, Loser."
Begin crotch-punching, ankle-biting, and other cheap shots. "Stop
grabbing my balls, Chicken."
"Keep your balls off my head, Coward."
"Keep your head where it belongs....up your BUTT! KAYAAAH!"
I shut my door. I can't deal with the noise anymore and they can't
hear me when I tell them to be quiet and settle down. "What is that
smell?" I again ask myself as it gets stronger.
Finally, I see shirts flying past the window of my bedroom door and
begin to hear punches meeting backs and stomachs. Oh great! Aiman,
the 8 year old, has jumped into the fray. Apparently, he's going to get
his revenge on Ismail while he tag-teams with Hamo.
"Okay, okay!" shouts Ismail, "I'm a woman! I'm a woman! I quit!"
and he runs into my room and shuts the door behind him. "I won them
finally," he lies to my face.
"Yeah, I could tell by the wimpy 'I quit- I'm a woman' revelation
as you ran to hide behind my apron," I retort.
"Well, look at how sweaty I am! I just need to catch my breath, "
he announces as he flops down on MY CLEAN SHEETS! The hell you say!
"Go catch your breath in a shower. I've gotta sleep here tonight and
I don't wanna smell your funky ass all night! GET OUTTA HERE!" I throw
the door open and shove him into the general direction of the bathroom.
Oh, yeah. It's testosterone. THAT's the smell.
Finally, the three boys have each determined which one is a man and
which one is a girl. I don't care who wins....ultimately, if there's silence
I'LL be the winner.