Life without tutus

So, boys. Lots and lots of boys. To be fair, by "lots" I mean the three we have running around our house, but by my unofficial calculations of house size (small) multiplied by craziness level (high), it does indeed feel like we have a whole herd. It generally sounds like it too. And here's the thing about them. Before I had my own herd, I never totally got them. I was raised in a house of girls, my dad being outnumbered four to one. My two sisters and I are best friends to this day, and we have years of cherished memories stemming from a childhood that was, to speak in generalities, pretty girly. My first eighteen years started with stuffed animals, tea parties, and barbies, which gave way to cheerleading and shopping, all of which culminated in sorority house living. (And based on this brief overview, I actually want to punch myself in the face, but hey, it is what it is.)  Growing up through all of this, I always dreamed the little girl dream of the fancy wedding in the fancy white dress with the handsome groom twirling me around the dance floor. And miracle of miracles, this is exactly what happened. (Full disclosure: we twirled to The Humpty Dance and the swear-laden version of Total Eclipse of the Heart. But we twirled nonetheless. And my childhood self would most definitely have approved of the big day.) The wedding daydream was inevitably followed by the mommy daydream. Like most little girls, we pretended that our babies in tow were real little cuddle bugs. We would feed them, rock them, walk them and, of course, dress them. In pink. With bows and ruffles. And on top of that? More bows and more ruffles. Obviously.  But you know what I did not dress them in? As in never, not even once? A Bruins hockey jersey. Or Superman pajamas. Or, God forbid, anything in that wretched camouflage print.

It was six months post-wedding when Mark and I found out we were pregnant, and after much discussion, we decided not to find out the sex of the baby. And really, I loved not knowing. But when my mother bought both sets of Baby Gap bedding "just to be prepared either way," I'd be lying if I said I wasn't lusting after that pink toile pattern. Because it was perfectly precious, just the thing I would have wanted for that baby doll of my youth. But I sort of had a feeling I wouldn't be needing it. And I wasn't sure I had ever seriously considered my life re: the non-toile option.

Reality check #1: September 13, 2006  

"Congratulations! It's a boy!"

They placed him on my chest, and, as anyone who has ever given birth says, it was instant love. Our Andrew. We kissed him and welcomed him. And I knew he was meant to be mine. To be ours. But I also vividly remember thinking, "So, like, what do I do with him?" Because, honestly, I had no idea. Having a boy was so out of my realm of comprehension. But I adapted. And I loved every minute of it. I folded football pj's. I swaddled with the bluest of blankets. And I (very) quickly learned the ultimate survival lesson: you must always (always!) point "it" down in any diaper change scenario. I, my friends, was the mother of a boy.

Then, two years later, pregnancy number two. We went the same route. We chose to be surprised. I loved not knowing. And I knew without official confirmation that it would be another round of blue for us. Sure enough...

Reality check #2: August 5, 2009

"Congratulations! It's a boy!"

They placed the most mellow, beautiful little baby boy on my chest. And again, as they say, my heart instantly doubled in size and in love. Our Mason. Who was the sweetest infant. Who officially made me a mom of boys, plural. Who, about 13 months later, would turn into a little maniac. And this is when the boy thing got real.  From this point on, I would see little girls (the ones I always assumed I would give birth to) sitting quietly, coloring or doing a puzzle (seriously? a puzzle?), whilst Andrew would be in one corner having the tantrum of his little life (awesome) and Mason would be table diving or sofa surfing or eating the crayons that the little girl was trying to color with. But brothers. They were brothers. And I was so happy that they had each other, someone to bond with and share childhood with in that special way that only same sex siblings can.

We knew we wanted three children from the start. (And mother of God, how this has changed our house is cause for a whole separate post.) We knew we wouldn't find out the sex, per usual. But the third pregnancy was different almost from the start. Weird back issues that had never plagued me with the other two. A belly of an odd height, thereby making it impossible for me to wear the same pants I had survived on with the other two pregnancies. Could it be? Was the toile finally to be part of a design scheme? Dare I even think it for a second? But a funny thing happened. People assumed that I was desperate for this to be a girl. They would ask me at the rate of about four times per week, "Will you be OK if it's another boy?" (No, ma'am, I'll need to be medicated.) or, "What will you do if it's a boy?" (Well, we'll obviously be giving him away. There's no more room at the inn for that nonsense.) And I became very protective of my little (giant) belly, where what could be another baby boy was hiding, just waiting for his moment.

Reality check #3: September 26, 2012

"We have another boy!" Mark announced with the biggest smile and a look of slight disbelief.

They handed me the chubbiest little face. Our third baby boy. And my heart squeezed to the point of bursting. Our Oliver. Oliver Parker, named after my grandfather, who (coincidentally) never had a sister either. And so it was meant to be.

In the fifteen months since our third little man was born, it has come to this: I am the mother of boys. Yes, they throw things. Yes, they break things. And they run and they laugh and they scream and they twirl and they wrestle and they do it all again eight times before breakfast. But here's the secret about boys. (Listen closely, because it’s not something they like to advertise.) They love. They love as fiercely as they play. And maybe even just a bit more.

No, it's not what I had dreamed of as a little girl. No, it's not what I had expected. It's life. It's ours. It's real. And I love it more than I ever could have dreamed.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a few Bruins jerseys to fold.