Blessings in Blue

Before I had children, I had always envisioned that if, indeed one day I became a mother, I would have at least one little girl. I grew up with a sister. I have two nieces. I was a girl myself so it just made sense to me. Girls were what I knew. Girls were familiar. Comfortable. A safe bet. And girls would be fun. I have always had a fetish for tiny Mary Janes and outfits accompanied by ruffled bloomers. I thought that it would be great to stuff chubby baby legs into cable knit tights and to dress my child to the nines complete with dainty bow barrettes and bibs edged with eyelet lace. Yes, a little girl would be so much fun to have. And then I gave birth to two boys.

Boys. Raising boys was an anomaly to me. What the heck did I know about boys? Every time I have built a structure out of Legos it was the same style, rarely going outside the box. Here. It’s a tower. A tall one. Collecting bugs was boring to me and the idea of intentionally locating a snake turned my stomach. Spending hours upon hours pushing toy trains along a track made me want to go cross-eyed and who the hell could tell the difference between Edward, Gordon, and Thomas, anyway? (They’re all blue for God’s sake!) I played sports in high school, but am no fanatic by any stretch of the imagination. Ugh! And the thought of creating storage for an arsenal of Nerf guns or stepping on plastic Army men hiding out in their Lincoln Log forts triggered a fit of anxiety. So although I was happy that my ultrasounds showed us healthy babies throughout both of my pregnancies, being the mom to boys definitely scared me a bit. I was confident enough in my abilities to feed and clothe them properly (begrudgingly not in anything cute though). I knew that I could teach them how to function appropriately in the world, but I certainly lacked all esteem in the idea of being able to be a fun mom for them. And, truth be told, how fun would it be for me?

Oh, how we all underestimate ourselves.

There is absolutely not a single fiber of my being that can imagine what life would be like without my boys. My children have taught me such an obvious lesson in life. The “fun” found in raising kids is not determined by the clothing that they wear or the gender-associated activities you assume that they will enjoy. My kids have reminded me how much fun it is to dig in the dirt, to discover new things using all my senses, to make messes in finger paints, to run around the backyard with my arms spanning wide pretending that I am airplane. They do play for hours upon hours with their Lincoln Logs and trains, but it’s okay-- because I have just as much fun watching them and am amazed by their creativity and imagination. Yes, they think that crashing their cars into one another and knocking down cities of blocks like Godzilla is the greatest pastime. But they also think that it’s hysterical to dress up whether it be in a fireman’s hat or a handful of Mardi Gras beads. They have so much fun cooking their play kitchens and helping me make meals in my own. They smile when I sing to them and laugh when they are read stories. They love their Legos and trains and bugs and sports, but have taught me how to love them, too. For just being able to share those moments, engaging with them, is where the fun is found. My children have taught me that it is not about boys or girls being “better” to raise—being able to raise a kid in general is the greatest.

And, for the record, I now also realize that stepping on Army men feels no different than stepping on Barbie shoes. Nerf darts can accumulate just as easily as a stash of Polly Pocket figurines. My blessings I blue have brought to light the fact that I don’t have to spend hours brushing the knots out of my child’s hair and there is an awesomeness that exists being that it is socially-acceptable to give him a faux-hawk. My kid can basically wear any combination of clothing in his wardrobe given that every shirt his owns can be paired up with a pair of jeans or camo pants and, with a little effort and attention to detail, I can now tell you—with pride-- the differences between Edward, Gordon, and Thomas.

I never really liked the color pink anyway.

Amazing Grace

This afternoon my cousin, Grace, delivered her firstborn. I wasn’t there physically. But there is no doubt that I was there, rooting her on, in spirit.

To be completely honest, for many years, I never felt like I was on the same playing field as Grace. We were born 10 weeks—to the day—apart. We shared the same grandparents, yet, in my eyes, it seemed that our maternal heritage was the only thing that we had in common.

Growing up I envied Grace. We have never lived close to one another in proximity. She is from a military family, so every couple of years they would come to visit us in Massachusetts or we would drive to whatever state that they were living in be it Ohio, Illinois, Kentucky... My glimpses into her world were brief, lasting no longer than a week at a time. Yet, from the perspective of a younger version of myself, she had the life that I wanted to live. She was, in so many respects, the person that I wanted to be. At the most basic level of reasoning, I envied her because she was named after our great grandmother. I thought that was so cool—a name with symbolism, a connection, a meaning. She could not only make other people laugh, but had the ability to also poke fun at herself. Everyone in their family has the gift of humor. She was so smart. She was an athlete. And a damn good one at that. Being a part of a military family, she had lived all over the world. She is the only person that I know who could speak German, but with a Southern twang. To that regard, I am pretty sure to that having to move from place to place was probably extremely difficult, but it made her family incredibly close. I truly have never witnessed a bond as tight as theirs. It is beautiful. That alone is something to envy. Her parents were amazing—firm, yet so loving, demonstrative and outwardly proud-- and she had an incredible relationship with both of them. She had brothers. I always wanted brothers—I figured that they would be awesome to have on hand to protect me, to teach me how to be tough. Growing up she had cool things that I wanted so badly. An RV. Neighborhoods that had quiet streets, cul-de-sacs, and sidewalks. And, for some reason, I seem to remember a canopy bed in one of her homes-- but my overwhelming envy could very well be making that part up. I was even jealous that they had the “Schwann Man” deliver Flintstone push-up ice cream pops to her doorstep. And despite all of these amazing aspects of her life, the one, most “enviable” characteristic of Gracie, however, was—and still is—her humility. She is so stinkin’ sweet, that even if you wanted to hate her, you simply couldn’t!

My envy remained silenced within for many years until early adulthood. It wasn’t until the deaths of our beloved grandparents—whose bloodline we shared, whose presence always brought us together, whose passings created deep voids-- that I began to see Grace simply as an individual and not as an individual whose life I coveted. My envy morphed into admiration; My longing into respect. Our correspondences with one another changed as well. We graduated from the occasional letter penned in childish handwriting on Lisa Frank stationary to weekly phone calls to wish each other a “Happy Sunday”. And thanks to things like Facebook, I have been able to see how her life is unfolding through photographs and status updates. As maturity granted us wisdom, education, careers, and husbands, I began to feel more like an equal to her. It is even more so now that we share something else. It is no longer just our maternal heritage, but our own maternal experiences.

Our babies were born 4 months—to the day-- apart. These children, like their mothers, will not grow up in close proximity to one another. But they will share some of the same lineage and, through that, maybe embody a few similar characteristics. A physical reminder of our Grampie or Grammie might cross our babies’ faces through a warm smile or a twinkle in their eye. And then there are the qualities that can’t necessarily been seen. The importance of a good education and making sound financial investments will most likely be imparted, and perhaps our children will love things like poetry or be great at jigsaw puzzles like their great grandparents. No matter what attributes that they might possess, they are both lucky and have no reason to be envious of one another.

Yes, the feelings of envy towards Grace and the life that she leads are now feelings of love and genuine well wishing. Time, experience, and sensibility have all taught me that family is not something to be jealous of, but, rather, joyful for.

Welcome to the world—and to the family-- Baby Clara. And welcome to “Club Mama”, Cousin. I love you both!