All my life I imagined having a sweet and sensitive daughter. I pictured a vintage 1930s cottage style bedroom, nouveau hippy chick braids, Pippi Longstocking tights, girl scout outings, and prom dress shopping. Growing up, I was a girly girl myself. I squirmed and gagged over bugs and blood and even the food trapped in the drain after doing dishes. When we went fishing, my dad always baited the hook so I wouldn't have to touch the fish eggs. I spent countless hours coloring, playing with Barbies, writing sappy poetry and collecting pictures out of magazines for my some day wedding to my some day groom and the some day house we'd live in.
Fast forward to some day. The only reason my oldest child gave a real smile for a family portrait was because he farted in his dad's lap. I trip over tiny dinosaurs and Star Wars figurines. I know the difference between rough housing and playing too rough and the eyes in the back of my head can see who started it. I get called into the bathroom to look at a "really cool poop." I know that silence is a bad thing. I know what kind of screams mean there is blood involved. I know that it is possible for a pee-pee to get caught in a pogo stick spring. In the last year I have fixed 5 broken drawer fronts, 4 cracked outlet covers, 2 broken light fixtures, 2 broken doors, and a broken toilet seat. Vintage cottage style has been forgotten for a Yoda poster, Tonka trucks, randomly flung dirty underwear, and whatever sheets are clean enough. Not clean- just clean enough. Ice skating lessons (for hockey, of course), soccer, little league, tarantula costumes for Halloween, "dirt fights" in the back yard, "pee fights" at the toilet (don't ask)... No- I definitely don't have girls. My life is all about being a mother of three rambunctious BOYS.
That's how I know there is a God. You see, if the universe simply hinged on evolution and survival of the fittest, I figure I would have had girls. Girls who would have been agreeable and calm and Mommy's Little Helpers. Girls who would have reflected a little bit of me as a kid. Girls I could have identified with. Discovery Channel could have featured our family of a dozen little mini-me's helping each other fold the laundry, starting up the crock pots, pushing multiple carts through warehouse grocery stores with well-organized lists in hand. We'd sit and paint and learn to sew while we homeschooled.
Instead, in his ultimate wisdom, God have me my boys. Boys who would take me out of my element and cause me to stretch and to grow. Cause me to take a stand, be heard, get tough, get over it. Boys who would melt my heart with their baby neck nuzzles and their silky hair and dimples. Boys who would bat their eyelashes adoringly at me and beg me to be their favorite audience and watch their antics over and over. These crazy boys of mine are always loud, always curious, always putting on a show. They've taught me to handle blood and bugars and puke. They've taught me to be a referee, judge, jury, jailer, night-time watchman, nurse, teacher, and pastor. The emergency room is as much a familiar place as play group and the library.
There is one thing I think God wanted me to learn the most from my boys. How to accept his life plan for me and how to have strength that is given from him and not of myself. I have a calling to grow into the person it takes to raise up 3 young men of strong character. I sure don't have it down perfectly, but I'm getting better every day at filling my job description and it's a job I never want to quit. These three might not sit still in the grocery cart, but they'll hold the door for the next 23 minutes when we leave the store because they like to be called "gentlemen." They might not have braids in their hair, but they'll brush my hair while I read a story. They don't need the latest doll or designer clothes or Tinkerbell lip gloss. Give them a stick and an empty cardboard box and they'll be happy all day.
One of these days the boys will be old enough for Daddy to take them on a boys weekend away. I'll hog the hot water in a long bubble bath, read chick lit, do my nails and eat chocolate and maybe do some shopping. But then the house will be too quiet and I'll miss them wrestling in the living room or sneaking bites of food off my plate. I'll take the snips and snails and puppy dog tails any day if it means getting hugs with grubby little arms and peanut butter kisses. Besides that I don't think the mini-me's would have been good for my mental state. I hear girls get PMS at age two.
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