I have been blessed with three wonderful, handsome, funny, energetic, smart little boys. They are great little guys. Full of energy and boisterous voices, bundles of physicality and exuberance. They swagger through the house like little men. They are already mini dudes in Star Wars t-shirts, cargo shorts and backwards baseball caps.
Do you see where this is going? They are perfect little boys in all the ways little boys are perfect.
There is only one problem. Not one of them is a girl.
I am one of four girls. I went to an all-girls school from grades 7 through 12. Then I spent 2 months out of the summer at an all-girls camp. I joined a sorority. I lived with female roommates when I was single. I spent the first 30something years of my life surrounded by women.
Now here I am, years later, living with four males and not another female in sight. Not even a female pet. Maybe I need a girly goldfish.
My boys are adorable. Their behavior is not always appalling and sometimes we even go out in public without them embarrassing me.
But they jump on me.
And they grab my face.
They pee on the floor, and the wall, and themselves.
They roll on each other and wrestle and punch and shove.
They won’t wear the clothes I pick out–opting for the same hideously ugly clearance rack Legos Batman shirt four days in a row.
They are enamored of their anatomy–pulling, yanking, and holding lovingly.
They can’t burp without laughing.
They announce every passing gas bubble with a raucous “I tooted!” no matter where we are or who is with us.
They love Star Wars and Hot Wheels and movies about ninjas, but not one of them will watch Tangled or The Princess Diaries with me. But they’ll watch Cars for the 758th time.
Three babies in five years and with 4-0 looming on the not-so-distant horizon (not to mention a little tube tying after my third C-section), I have given up my wishes and dreams for a daughter to someday go shopping and get pedicures with. I don’t care if that is a cliche–it is always something I pictured and longed for; I didn’t/don’t have that kind of relationship with my own mother.
I love my boys more than I ever knew I could love anyone or anything. But still every now and then when I see a mother/daughter duo out to lunch or walking in the mall, my heart hurts a little.
I hope my sons don’t mind when I hijack their girlfriends and, someday I hope, wives for lunch dates and rom com matinees. It is my new fantasy. You always have to have a Plan B.
In the meantime, I’m learning how to throw the perfect pitch and the best way to win a light saber fight.
And I’m teaching them to say “Excuse me” after they burp (once they stop laughing).
