I grew up as the oldest of four girls. Anytime I used the words, “there’s four of us,” the guaranteed reply was, “oh, your poor dad! Does he have a dog, at least?” Clearly, girls suck. Or, that’s what society taught the four of us.
When we got pregnant quite easily, I FELT in my heart that we were having a girl, and so did my husband. We were both shocked when the ultrasound technician told us she spotted a twig and berries on the sonogram.
Guys, if you don’t know it, I’ll drop some knowledge on ya – Moms and sons have a special bond. Just like when you say someone is a Daddy’s girl, ya know? I cry when my son tells me he loves me over and over, but has never said it to my husband. He hops off Daddy’s lap and brings his blanket to me when he needs a “snuggle.” We play so hard together, but he is content playing alone when Mama is at work, rather than playing with Daddy.
But for real… this kid is different than the little sisters I remember. We played Barbies, tea parties, Hot Wheels, LOTS of Legos, went on bike rides, played in the sandbox. I remember a lot of the twins being tiny, including the day Mom went to get induced. But I DO NOT remember a lot of what this kid is putting me through.
Things I didn’t know I’d have to say:
Stop tasting me, that’s weird.
Where are your pants?!
Why are your boogers so sticky?
Don’t honk my boobs.
Yeah, Mommy has a floppy belly.
You’re RIGHT, your feet ARE stinky!
DON’T PLAY IN THE TOILET.
NO NO NO NO NO NO, YUCKA! YUCKA! NO TOUCH!
You can’t store things inside my shirt. No.
Why do you only have one shoe?
HOW DO YOU MAKE SO MUCH POOP?!
Don’t touch the poop!
*Insert any exclamatory about poop*
No, you can’t get naked here. No.
You’ve already had 3 snacks since breakfast. You can’t still be hungry.
Stop tickling the dog’s peepee.
No, your earwax is NOT yumyumyum, stop that. Where did you even learn that?
Get out of the bathroom; it’s not okay to play IN the toilet. You need a bath.
But now I’m a boy mom. All the way. Team boy. My husband’s family makes LOTS of boys, so I’ve embraced the fact that my bathrooms will never smell clean again, that “feet” is an odor that lingers in the air, and that peepees are funny when you stretch them out. God bless America, maybe I won’t understand that one. Max can tell you about it.
Crap, he’ll hate me when he’s old enough to know I wrote this. Oh, well. He’ll forgive me; we have a special bond.