This is Nora. Husband has taken to referring to Nora and me as "His Bitchez."
This is only mildly less disconcerting than the current delight my son gets from declaring
"I HAVE A WILLY! DADDY HAS A WILLY! YOU AND NORA HAVE VAGINAS!!!!"
Uh, yes. Clever boy.. (cough).
Both my son's matter-of-fact use of the "v-word" and his discovery of the analogous relationship of mummy's "bits and pieces" to the dog's "bits and pieces"--well, it gives one pause...
I am already outnumbered, as you can see (unless you count the dog) and it seems the willy quota in our house is about to get a serious boost. Yup... It's a Boy...!
The atmosphere at chez ginga is decidedly upbeat at the news--already hugging ourselves each time we refer now to "the boys." By all signs, Sprog is healthy, bouncy, and right on track. Boyo loves to come over to me and "kiss his baby brother" (this can mean having your shirt suddenly yanked up in public spaces, be warned).
There's a part of me, though, that can't quite process that I am to be mummy to "the boys." Let me be honest and say that there is a minute twinge over knowing that I will never have a daughter. (and to any potential trolls out there who might be judging me for not realizing how "blessed I am"--if you do not think that if someone touched a single hair on one of my boy's heads I would hunt that person down and conduct prolongued and devastating acts of torture, then stop reading now...) With each pregnancy I have made all the right noises about "just wanting the baby to be healthy" and have silently yearned for a girl. A daughter.
I can definitely trace the roots of this desire. First being the oldest among 12 grandchildren, and the only girl. I have one brother, who is now one of my best friends, but as a child I merely tolerated him (or more frequently not, as the mood took us). Each time an Aunty Blah-Blah was pregnant, I was crushed to discover another male cousin had joined the brood. And my family produces boisterous types--types who, at family get-togethers when we were all told to "run off and play," would think nothing of wrestling me to the ground to play "doctors and nurses"--yes, to check out my alien "bits and pieces." My complaints were greeted with "they're just naturally curious, how about you just let them..." (What???!!!!). (Meanwhile, I thought nothing of flashing my bum-bum on-request to a boy at school I had a bit of a yen for). The only other girl (who is the only clan member to know about this blog) came when I was 14, when it was a tad too late to be rescued from my gender isolation. This was partly my fault, being a girly-girl and deeply judgemental of all these young and stinky boys.
Deep psychological damage resulting from childhood trauma notwithstanding, I think some of the other emotions I feel about this one might be more familiar to many of us. Part of it is about ego, and even disbelief that you could grown anything that was not really just a reproduction of yourself. A girl. Just like you, only more clever, well-adjusted, and whole. When I found out that my first was a boy, my first reaction was disbelief. How can I grow a male?? Yes, ego, and an erroneous and unbalanced perspective over one's incubatory and and baby-making powers...
As a feminist, I had fantasies of raising a girl who never, ever, questioned her ability to do something because of her gender. Our relationship would be deeply close, our conflicts rare (merely opportunities for us to grow). She would think that her Mum was dead smart, and (more importantly) dead hip... I would handle the talks about menstruation, and sex, and heartbreak, and peer-pressure with aplomb because I had SOOO been there. She would always and without question turn to me.
Yes. Basically I was deluding myself.
But even as I recognize the delusion, I realize that I wish all these things for my boys as does their Daddy (except for the menstruation part, which could be tricky). So far our son (nearly 4) has shown no aversion for things coded "girl" and we delight in how much he loves fairies, crowns, and wands. He does not even have the word "gun" in his lexicon, and refers to the canons on his Playmobile pirate ship as "blasty things." OK, so he has also been coming home with "lots of spitting and name-calling today" on his daily note from preschool a bit too often these days, but I would like for the record to say that he learned to spit and namecall from one of the girls in his class who eggs him on. Which for some reason makes me feel quite a bit better about it. And for the most part you are more in danger of being sidelined with an enthusiastic hug by our Boy than being raspberried at (but don't rule it out).
So, right now Angelina Ballerina and Spiderman rank on a par in my son's world, but I am realistic about the likelihood that he will continue in this metrosexual vein (statisically speaking, that is--if he ends up liking ballet more than football his artsy-farsty, liberal parents could not be more happy, but we also foresee a future of little league and soccer practice). And let me utter the most hackneyed but resonant cliche in the world--whatever my sons chose is fine, as long as they are happy, healthy and