A friend of mine, the amazing mother of two little girls, recently blogged her fears about finding out the gender of her yet-to-be-born #3. She grew up with all sisters, now has two girls, and was quite nervous about the possibility of testosterone streaming in her womb. (Results are in --- Testosterone it is!)
I laughed. Why? Because that's almost exactly what happened to me 7 1/2 years ago. I was so sure I was having a girl. There was no way God would send me a boy because I wouldn't know what to do with it and openly admitted that I just didn't understand little boys. (Not any better with "big boys...") I walked into the ultrasound suite confident in finding the "hamburger sign." You know...Hamburger sign for girls and Turtle sign for boys.
Yet, turtle it was.
I asked the sonographer a million time if she was sure. She was. My measurements were small, so the radiologist was brought in, whom I also drilled. Turtle? You sure? Really?
What was God thinking?
I didn't know what to do with a boy. I had no experience. I didn't get them. I only had 1 brother amid us 4 girls. He was 5 years older than me; that's like 130 years in kid-years. We didn't do anything together. Our daily interaction consisted of my rolling up the sleeves of his Vuarnet T-Shirts every morning (perfectionist little sisters are awesome at this.)
All I had observed I didn't understand. Mayhem and destruction? War? Beating a stick on the ground to find out how long before it disintegrates? Paying someone $0.50 to urinate on the side of their house? (Though it did provide for a lucrative business..) Huh?
But there he was, and still is. Boy, oh, boy. Mayhem and destruction? Check. War? Check. Beating a stick on the ground to find out how long before it disintegrates? Check. Check that one twice, actually. Paying someone $0.50 to ... well, I don't think that one's checked, but I wouldn't be surprised.
Seven years later, and I still don't know what to do with him. I frequently have to glance at his Dad and get the reassurance of "He's not a sociopath, that's just what boys do." For his sake, I've learned to speak GI Joe, Lego, and Avatar like a master. I've learned that the lack of aim is not on purpose - usually - and Clorox Wipes do wonders. I've learned that the amount of dirt and smell on a boy at bedtime is directly correlated to the fun of the day and happiness of the boy. I've learned to not ask "what were you thinking" unless I'm willing to accept the rationale. I've learned to "hear" love told in different ways.
So, friend, you are in for a ride. Brush up on your GI Joe, pull out a sword - or a stick - and hang on. Boys just come different, right out of the box, and I don't just mean in the diaper.
I'll never understand what God was thinking when he gave me this kid, but I'll always be glad he thought of me.