The Unsuspecting Mother of Boys

When I was growing up, I expected that when it came time to have kids I’d have one, sweet, calm daughter just like my mom had. My mom saved a box of my delicate baby dresses that had been hand-knit by family friends when I was born. She also kept a precious, tiny green rocking chair that I planned to give to my little girl. I imagined mother-daughter bonding and a mini-me who would mirror the best parts of my own childhood. I even imagined moving to Hawaii when I had kids, just as my parents had done.  

Now here I am with two boys -- and totally not in Hawaii.

The day we found out we were having boys was a rough one. My whole pregnancy, from conception to carrying the babies to their birth, was difficult. On this particular day, my husband and I needed some good news so, on the spur-of-the-moment when the doctor asked if we wanted to know the gender, Matt said yes and I agreed. 

Before she told us, the doctor asked what I thought I was having. Despite always expecting to be the mother of a little girl, I had a feeling I was carrying boys. Mother’s instinct or just luck? Who knows. I had a 50-50 chance.

When the doctor confirmed my intuition, I was happy. Girls can be complicated and mother-daughter relationships are notoriously sticky and tricky. Most women I know have a close, but slightly troubled relationship with their moms. Most men I know adore their moms. These are broad strokes. There are not guarantees. But I liked the idea of boys.

I’m not girlie-girl. I don't care much about makeup or shopping or trends. As a kid, I liked climbing trees and playing with cars (as well as Barbies). I like playing ball and wearing jeans. I like boys. I like dudes. They are, for the most part, straight forward, easy-going, what-you-see-is-what-you-get people (except when you are a single woman dating, when men are dense and complicated riddles!) 

Annnywaaaay, so far having boys is better than I imagined. My guys are sweet and cuddly and funny and cool. They love to hold my face and stare into my eyes. They caress my back when I am holding them. They smooth my hair and squeeze me hard. They are awesome -- and I mean that literally. My sons fill me with awe.

They are also totally wild, crazy animals.

My boys are constantly on each other like two WWE wrestlers --  jumping, kicking, poking, pounding, slapping, rolling, yelling. They are two balls of nuclear energy smashing into each other.

They do love to hug and say “I love you” to each other. But the hugs often turn into headlocks and the “I love yous” are muffled as they smush each other’s faces into the floor.

For me, an only child who thought she’d have a sweet little girl to sit and play dolls with, it's a kind of play I don't really understand. Still, I've learned quickly when something is about to go from good to bad to potential serious injury. And the thing is, my boys are not aggressive. Outside of our house, they are shy and clingy. They are afraid of dogs. They hate the talking Halloween mask in our neighbor's yard, who I have named Bob. They are terrified of certain old people (don't ask me why!) But they love to jump on top of each other from a great height.

Yes, I admit that when I walk through Target ('cause I really don't go a lot of other places) I moon over the adorable dresses and sparkly shirts in the girls' section. But I would not trade my little wrestlers for anything.