kiwords

I was at the supermarket checkout today...ok, hang on. I have to go on a tangent here. Do you notice how many of my blogs include the supermarket? I seem to live there, yet do you think there is ever any food in the house? It’s pathetic, that’s what it is. *sigh* I have no life. Moving on.
As I was saying, as the cashier was scanning my items, she started looking in and around my cart, mentally tallying the boys I had with me. Here it comes, I thought.
“THREE boys? Are they all yours?” she gasped.
“Yup. All mine.”
“Wow,” she eyed them in amazement, and then leaned in to speak confidentially, “don’t you wish you had at least ONE girl?”
“Nope. Wouldn’t know what to do with a girl.”
“Yeah, but you can do their hair, and dress them in pretty clothes…don’t you wish you had ONE?”
Now, I never know what to say to this. I hate it when I hear parents of all girls wish in front of their daughters that they had a son, or the other way around. I knew a woman who had four boys and used to comment frequently that the only reason she didn’t abort the fourth is she hoped it would be the daughter she longed for. This was said in front of her youngest son. I could be wrong, but that seems just…mean.
So although there is a part of me that aches just a little when I see a dress with little rosebuds, I wouldn't admit it. At least not in front of the boys. I smiled at my grubby-faced, goofy-haired tribe of boys, and then leaned in to speak to her confidentially,
“Boys are better.”
Her eyebrows rose. She was taken aback. That’s a heck of a thing for one woman to say to another. I nodded seriously.
“They are. Friends of mine come to visit with their daughters and,” I whispered the shocking truth, “those girls talk waaaay too much.” She was literally at a loss for words, so I smiled and let her off the hook. “Actually, girls are fine. I’m just used to my boys. They always surprise me, and I wouldn’t trade them for anything.” She said something like “Oh…ok. Umm… that’ll be…”
Well, I don’t think you get it if you aren’t the mother of sons. Before I had Tre I pictured myself raising a sweet little girl. After all, when I was a kid all my dolls were girls. I guess I assumed the small size of our species mostly comes in pink.
But then I had my boys, and now I see things differently. Boys actually live up to many of the stereotypes surrounding them. Sometimes I’ll see two of my sons, walking innocently past each other, and something happens. Some sort of signal, invisible to the womanly eye, passes between them, and in a heartbeat they’re rolling on the floor, trying their best to kill each other. Gleefully. They tend to climb things, and come up with systems for flinging things that hadn’t occurred to me should be flung. They like to make farting noises with their hands in their armpits. They chase anything that will run away. They’re weird and smelly and happiest when they’re grubby.
They’re amazing. After a whole lifetime of cherishing girly things, my sons have converted me to the culture of boy. Ok, not entirely. I still don't get the farting noises in the armpit thing. But I do take way more interest in things like Bionicles and dinosaurs than I once did. When the kids are watching tv and an ad for some girl toy comes on, they moan "Ick, Barbie!" Doesn't matter which girl toy it is, Barbie represents all things icky and pink. Although I played with Barbies when I was little and loved them, I tend to think the same thing now. Ick, Barbie.
As a former girl myself, I’m sure I would have a wonderful time with a daughter. But I don't have a daughter. What I’ve got is this awesome regiment of boys. Wouldn’t trade them for anything.