I Am the Mother of Boys
Why you shouldn’t ask if I miss having a daughter
I’m so sorry,” says the voice on the phone.
“Why?” I ask.
“That you didn’t have a girl.”
“Why are you sorry?” I say.
I’m in the hospital. I’ve given birth to my second son. He is hours old. I can’t believe the words I’m hearing. Unwanted dialogue at any point, let alone this moment.
I’m confused.
People believe unless we have a boy and a girl we are missing something.
They think we got cheated in the motherhood pool. The color pink will be erased in favor of increasingly dreary hues. We’ll pine for the world of frilly tutus and dollies. Easy-Bake Ovens will be tossed into storage while mother-daughter dreams are shelved.
Heavy sigh…
G.I. Joe is overpowered as Barbie withers away.
I ignore this mentality. I soldier through ignorance. There is no need to announce my blessings. One person’s worldview will not interrupt mine. I am a boy mom.
I love it.
I find out I’m having my third baby. Not unlike in my previous pregnancies, I request not to know what I am having. Even before I am a mother of boys, I am uncomfortable witnessing the excitement or disappointment of one gender or another.
It feels unnatural to me. The best part of having a baby is their arrival. Once they’re placed into your arms you can’t live without them.
During the sonogram, the doctor’s facial expression drops.
She assumes I want a girl. I am upset with an individual’s assumption of what they believe I want and that they disclose what I am having. I want to be surprised. But clearly, her look says it all.
It doesn’t stop there.
The world still feels I need a daughter. Even if I don’t. I try for a fourth baby. Once again, people assume I want a girl. But I don’t. I’m a boy mom. I can’t believe they’re mine.
I am meant to be their momma.
The rude awakening. The introduction to cars, balls, and action figures. The dirt, the gross, and the mess. The dinosaurs, the reptiles, and the prehistoric. The burps and bodily noises. And the laughter that inevitably follows.
The world I never knew.
The one I now belong to.
They’re my saving grace. They’ve toughened my feminity. I’ve softened their masculinity. They’ve encouraged my strength. I’ve applauded their vulnerability. They’ve witnessed my struggles. I’ve encouraged their resilience.
Long after that hospital conversation, my little guy comes home from school.
He’s been left out of a party.
Ever a good momma, I’m equally devastated. Not my sweet baby. Not his hurt feelings. Can you blame me? I tend to his heart, give him a snack, and help him with his homework. An hour later I check on him.
“Are you still sad?” I ask.
“About what?” he says.
Herein lies the joy of a boy momma. At least one of them. It happens and it’s over. There’s no drama. No extended grief. They’ve moved on to the next thing. It’s a moment in time. I’m spared anguish.
No emotional hostages are taken.
Did I think I might have a son and a daughter? Yes.
Before I became a boy mom. Before balls bouncing by and flying by my head were a way of life. A way to keep in shape even. Before superheroes and muddy puddles called my name. Before worn-out little guys showed me their exhaustive love of sports.
Before I found bathroom humor hysterical.
Before they brought home gifts. The field trip money they were supposed to use on themselves but their sweet elementary school hearts bought something for Mommy instead.
Before they shared their heart.
To me, a foreigner, a girl…their mom. Before we stayed up late and they told me about their dreams, their worries, the team they hoped to make, the girl they hoped to love, or who broke their heart. The friend that upset them or the test they were worried about.
The childhood troubles to teenage angst to young men’s worries.
My boys have kept me beside them. The place where most believe daughters reside. The privilege held by one parentally close gender. As if parenthood is an exclusive adventure.
They ignore the stereotype, “ A daughter’s a daughter for the rest of your life. A son’s a son ’til he takes a wife.”
Gender doesn’t profess affection. Dedication knows no boundaries. Birth is the beginning of an indescribable love affair.
Don’t tell me you’re sorry I’m the mother of boys.
I might tell you I’m sorry you’re not.
