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.
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