Two years ago at this time, I was a few weeks away from having one of my deepest fears confirmed. Seventeen weeks pregnant, I was not afraid of losing the baby or my child being born imperfect or unhealthy. I was afraid of something I had sensed for a while—and not only me, but my sisters (and even their friends!).
I was having a boy.
Do not misunderstand: I love my son very much and would not trade him for a daughter. But before he was born, I was very scared to have a boy because I simply didn’t know what to do with little boys. (Other than, as my great aunt had exclaimed upon returning home at age 2 and finding a new brother there, “put pepper in he eyes and chop off he head!”) (Note: this is not recommended or acceptable or legal.)
I knew girls. I knew daughters. As the oldest of four girls, I knew exactly what little girls liked and played with and wore and enjoyed and did. I could shop for frilly dresses and baby dolls and play kitchens and dress up clothes and baby schools.
I could not see myself choosing between the hammer and the fire truck, the matchbox cars and the tool bench. Buying tiny suits.
But most of all, I could not see myself changing a little boy’s diaper. That’s how afraid I was of little boys.
So, in truth, I hoped to have a girl first. If I could have a girl first, I felt, I would have a child that I could care for confidently. And then I would be ready to “experiment” with having a boy later.
But my ways are not His ways, and my plan was not His. My first was to be a boy, and even before the ultrasound confirmed it, I had a nagging suspicion of that fact.
I do not think that I longed to have a daughter so I could have a child that I understood. Perhaps watching my three younger sisters growing up taught me that it takes more than a common gender to understand someone else. My sisters and I are each different—though we do have much in common. But I have long known that I would have to get to know each of my children as individuals, whether we happened to both be female or not.
And everything else, really, is incidental to that. I can tell you now that my son loves to turn the wheels on his toy cars, hit things with his toy hammer and throw his balls—none of which I bought for him (okay, except for one ball) (which I had to buy twice). He hates to wear his ties, but doesn’t seem to mind wearing his little suits (which I did buy for him). I can even do diapers with complete confidence (which I think comes from having been peed on several times).
But the trappings of his gender seem to have so little to do with who he is. He loves to laugh—throw back his head and guffaw a guttural belly laugh. Perennially curious, he loves to explore and investigate anything and everything. And because he is a little boy and my preconceived notions of boyhood include aversions to girls and their cooties, his spontaneous hugs and kisses seem all the sweeter.
I still want a daughter at some point—two, actually. But having my son first has given me exactly what I thought I would get from having a daughter—confidence in my ability as a mother. So bring it on, future sons and/or daughters. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.
This entry is part of the first Mothers and Daughters Blog Carnival. Sarah/SingForHim told me I could participate even though I have a son.