A Human Baby Would Be Fine, Thanks

I'm the mother of girls.  Two rosy, beautiful, hilarious girls.  And I love every ounce of it.

When I started sharing that I was pregnant with my third, the exchange usually went something like this,

"I'm having another baby!"

"Oh!  Congratulations!  Hoping for a boy?"

"We'd be excited with either," I'd say flatly.

When we found out that our third was, in fact, a boy, the chorus of "You're getting your boy!  Congratulations!" and "I bet you're so excited you're getting a boy this time!" only grew louder.

It happened every time we told someone.  It still happens when we tell someone for the first time.  And it's driving me insane. 

I read an interesting article this week by Amy Wilson. Her situation was in reverse of mine.  The mother of two boys, she becomes pregnant again and is suddenly confronted with everyone from family to strangers making comments such as the ones I received. 

She remarks on why the comments bothered her as much as they did, 

I know these people are just making conversation. But this constant assumption leaves me a little offended. What's wrong with boys? Why wouldn't I want another one? It bothers me that people assume I feel incomplete without a daughter, let alone that it's my motivation for being pregnant with a third child in the first place.

Indeed.  What's wrong with girls?  Why is it assumed that our family is not whole without the addition of a boy?

I'm comfortable as a mom of girls.  I know how to style hair.  I can effectively work pink into any outfit my pink-obsessed daughter wants to wear.  I cherish watching her love on her baby dolls.  And while I know that a boy can be or do anything a girl can and vice-versa, there's something inherently girl about well, girls. 

It's not that I don't want a boy.  I'm excited to head off into that uncharted territory.  But had the sonogram revealed that this baby was going to be a girl, I would have been bouncing off the walls in excitement just as much as I was when we heard the boy news. 

Admittedly, when I found out baby #3 was a boy, I was awash with a considerable dose of apprehension.  I was the mother of girls.  Not boys.  I have two girls with girl clothes and girl hair and girl parts.  I got that.  I mastered that.  (Heck, I was a girl once, too).  Boys?  Not so much. 

They're rough and tumble.  They're constantly on the go.  They are always into mischief.  They pee on EVERYTHING.   They have boundless energy.  They have boy bits.  They're just so... boy.

But as time goes on, I'm more and more excited about the adventure the little guy is sure to bring.  And I'm sure he'll complete our family in his own special way.  But it's not on the merit of his boy-ness. 

Wilson's closing says it best,

I've started telling strangers and basking in their excitement. Yesterday, a security guard asked if I knew what I was having. "I have two boys at home," I said. "This one's a girl."

She inhaled sharply, then smiled, ruefully: "I just had my third. All three boys. You are so lucky." "Thank you," I said, though I still don't really get it. I'm counting on all these people being right: that when I meet this daughter and look in her eyes, I will understand why everyone else so wanted this for me.

And maybe in the same way, when they place my boy on my chest minutes after he's born and I look at his chubby little face, maybe I'll understand too.