I am...

I am many things. I will not quibble over which of these things is more important, but I will say that the majority of my life right now is focused on just one of those things: I am the mother of three boys.

I think it is true that most women who anticipate having children cannot help but fantasize about putting their little girl in pig tails for the first time and teaching her to love herself and her body and preparing her to thrive in a man’s world (which she, by the way, will single handedly transform into a women’s world with her independent, witty, and magical influence). I will freely admit that I was one of these women. So, when I imagined the other alternative, having a boy, I did not dread it by any means, I simply did not have a preordained dialogue about it in my head.

I have a cousin who has three boys and a best friend who has four boys. Both of them started their families long before I did. I used to bring them both up in polite conversation with other women; my reference almost, but not quite, bordering on a “see what could happen to you” commentary. I can’t say what I thought was so scary about having a brood of boys, and perhaps it wasn’t that it was scary to me, it was, again, that I didn’t have a story in my head to go along with it. I imagine this is because I am a woman and as a woman it is possible that I may have wanted to redo my own life through the life of my daughter. Come to think of it, maybe all mothers of daughters feel that way and maybe that is one of the inherent problems between mothers and daughters, because you must admit most mothers and daughters have some issues, but I digress…

Right before I entered the room to have the gender determining ultrasound with my first pregnancy, I heard the patient ahead of me find out that she was having a girl. When I listened to that discovery, her happiness, her husband’s nervous laugh, the doctor’s congratulations, I knew that I would not get the same news. I knew in my heart that I was having a boy. It was even possible that I knew in my heart that I would never get the news that I was having a girl. So when the doctor brought up the screen that, not so subtly, showed the sex of our unborn baby, and let us read the results for ourselves rather than declaring it for us, I expected to feel a sense of defeat or sadness, but I felt nothing of the sort. Instead I felt the “mother” in me for the first time. I felt my hackles raise to defend my unborn son against the part of me that I expected to be lamenting that this child would never have pig tails. That part of me only lasted long enough to say goodbye to that cute pair of brown and pink mary janes I had seen just the other day. I loved my son. That was all. No argument. No lamenting. Thank you very much.

So, when we considered the option of having another baby I, of course, knew that there would be some part of me wishing for a girl, especially since I already had THE perfect little boy. However, I also knew that I was wiser now and knew that the sex of my baby did not matter nearly so much as the health of my baby. Though I will interject to admit that, upon finding out I was actually having TWO babies, I said to my mom, “If one of these babies is not a girl I will cry!” I was pretty sure one of them was a girl. I insisted that I felt it; you know, the feminine manifestation of my second chance on life. So when the ultrasound technician declared that Baby B was a boy, I knew that meant that Baby A was a girl. It took her awhile to get A to show its stuff, but when it did “it” was a he, too. Again, I expected this rush of regret and pain…how would the world ever be reclaimed from its male domination if I could not birth and raise the perfect daughter…and, again I was wrong. I did say to the technician, and my husband (who weren’t actually listening to me), “Really? So, I will never have a daughter? Really?” And, just like that, it didn’t matter. Maybe my boys could change the world; In fact, I was sure that they would.  I immediately began imagining myself as the Queen of England proudly declaring that I was delivering, not one, but TWO heirs for my royal husband, in addition to the one I had already produced. (So I read a bit too much historical fiction…)

Now, as I sit typing, my boys are still so tiny that there is no telling what they will do for the world. My three year old, Kyan, is strong, confident, dramatic, and very intelligent. My twin boys are only 10 weeks old, but already I see who they may one day become. Mason is sweet, sensitive, and loving. Ronan is silly, outgoing, and at ease with the world. I can’t say I ever imagined myself with three boys. I wouldn’t have known how to imagine that. I didn’t have a script in my head that prepared me for this, but the lines are slowly writing themselves. Only yesterday I shook my head and twisted my stroller pushing hands together as I watched my 3 year old balanced on the tip of my husband’s skateboard as they both took off down the street (wearing helmets, thank you very much!). I explained to a neighbor as I passed that I did not approve of this activity! Yet, I watched also with a sense of pride…maybe this physical precipice that young boys seem to walk upon is their necessary journey…one that I can’t quite understand because it was never mine. Maybe my husband was looking at my boy’s little skate shoes as I looked at the pink and brown mary janes, and seeing his bravery on the skateboard as I would see a daughter’s confidence in her physical self. All I know for sure is that there is nothing, NOTHING, so beautiful as my three little boys.