Do you guys know today’s guest poster Tracey Schaefer? If not, you should. She’s a self-proclaimed mommy Jekyll and Hyde, taking care of her two boys by day and bitching about it at night! I’m guessing most of us can relate to that feeling, especially those of us surrounded by hoards of boys. She is hilarious and talented and today she’s sharing with us why she thinks having boys is the bee’s knees. Ok, she didn’t actually use the term “bee’s knees” but I’ve always wanted to say that.
What do you think? Are boys the way to go, or do you prefer sugar and spice and everything nice?
I always figured I was meant to be the mother of boys.
OK, caveat: like all girls did at the age of eight, I made a pact with my BFF that when we grew up, we would live right next door to each other and she would have a girl and I would have a girl and they would both have blonde hair and be best friends and we would all live happily ever after playing with our Barbies and Easy-Bake ovens.
But I had grown up with two older brothers. We played Bloody Knuckles and Greco-Roman wrestled together. I wasn’t Daddy’s Little Princess so much as Daddy’s Little Power Forward (“Be aggressive under the basket!” he would exhort.) So as a kid, I was comfortable in the world of boys.
After I married, I got it in my head that one of my chief duties as a woman was to bequeath my husband a son. A son that he would retrieve from my loins, hoist heavenward and present to the Pridelands a la “The Lion King.” If I didn’t produce a male heir, the consequences might be dire (let’s just say I was watching a lot of “The Tudors” at the time).
I was all-in for Team XY.
So when the ultrasound picture clearly revealed – twice – that we would be decorating our nursery in a shade of robin’s egg and not cotton candy, I was elated, and so was my husband.
But for every mother of boys only – even the ones, like me, who wanted them – there comes a moment. A moment when you realize all the things you won’t do with a mini-me. No princess costumes, pedicures or prom dresses. No watching your daughter become a bride, or sharing the experience of motherhood.
This is the moment when you realize that you will, in fact, live the next years of your life in a sausage factory.
At that moment, you feel the slightest twinge of longing in your heart. And then you must collect yourself, because one son is hanging off the top shelf of the pantry in an ill-fated Oreo raid and the other is preparing to dump an assload of Legos down the toilet.
And it occurs to you that maybe you’re romanticizing the whole girl thing. OK, so you won’t be able to sew you and your little sweetheart matching dresses from McCall’s patterns like your own mother did. So what? You don’t even know how to sew on a button. Plus, there are some pretty major perks to being a dude-maker. Case in point:
1) You don’t ever have to discuss “menstruation.” Is there a more cringe-worthy word in the English language? Or topic? With boys, you dodge this (one) personal hygiene bullet and avoid the divisive plastic vs. cardboard debate.
2) You won’t have to share. Clothes. Jewelry. Make-up. The aforementioned feminine hygiene products. There won’t be any trying on mommy’s dresses and stumbling around in her high heels. Unless, well… my sons turn out to be “unique.” Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
3) Wardrobe battles will be easier. Sure, I might yell, “You’re not leaving the house in that!” but it will be because the outfit in question has a ketchup stain on it. Maybe a shirt is untucked or socks don’t match. Not because it makes my child look like Jodie Foster in “Taxi Driver.”
4) You won’t have to drop serious coin on a lavish wedding. I’ll empty my wallet on an outrageously extravagant rehearsal dinner, thankyouverymuch.
5) You can be alone. Daddy and the boys can go to the men’s room, the football game, Boy Scout camp, Sport Clips, Hooter’s, the Three Stooges Film Festival , the man cave, where-the-hell-ever. All. Without. Mom.
6) You can indulge in your secret love for bathroom humor. You can lose the “ladylike” act and toss out some good fart jokes. You know you want to.
7) You won’t have to describe what a gynecologist does and how he does it. Because when I went to see the gyno for the first time in the ninth grade (for the aforementioned bad cramps), I nearly lost my shit when this creepy guy with ear hair started using words like “speculum.”
8) You won’t have to do the heavy lifting during “the talk.” Dad can explain the birds and the bees while Mom just pokes her head in to impart wisdom about true love and the stork.
So, there’ll be more “Cars” than “Frozen” in my life, more Batman than baby dolls, more Little League games than dance recitals, and considerably less urine directed into the toilet than sprayed everywhere but.
That’s OK. I always figured I was meant to be the mother of boys.
Tracey Schaefer clings to her sanity in the D.C. suburbs while taking care of her husband and two young sons. Find her “Spit Up, Meltdowns and Blowouts” blog on Facebook