No, I’m Not ‘Trying’ for a Girl

If I had one dollar for every time someone saw me with my three boys and said something like, “Oh, bless your heart. You’ve got your hands full,” or “Wow! You’re outnumbered, are you going to try for a girl?” Or my personal favorite, “It took my sister four boys before she got her girl.” Well, I’d be a millionaire.

Let me clarify before I go on – I am not easily offended, and I’m not offended when people ask variations of this question. Generally, I respond pleasantly and laugh it off. 

At the end of the day though, those questions and the question, “When are you going to have a baby?” are simply insensitive. 

Some people can’t have children, by zero fault of their own.

Some people don’t want to have children, by their own choice.

And some people, namely me, don’t want more children, or to try for a different gender.

I implore people to stop asking these things of others. You could never know someone’s personal situation, and at the end of the day it’s not really anyone else’s business or choice.

By asking me if I’m going to “try for a girl” it implies that I am, or should be, displeased with the three amazing boy humans I received. 
I adore my boys. I’m not trying for a girl. Plus, I have Mackenzie out here, who came ready-made.

I’m not starved for estrogen in my house or ‘missing’ some grand mother-daughter element.

I get to enjoy my humans – who are pretty fantastic, might I add.

This idea of Boys vs. Girls suggests that there is some type of specific value assigned to one gender that the other gender lacks, and that gap should be filled to appease parental needs. For what? Because I’m a woman I should have a girl to pass on my adoration for makeup and the color pink? Or because my husband is a man he should have boys to fulfill his desire to pass on a love for fishing and all things blue?

My husband loves to cook and is the primary cook in our house. He also appreciates a good chick flick. 

I love to build things and play with power tools, and have assembled most of our IKEA furniture. I also enjoy politics and can hold my own with discussions.

“Gender-Norms” only exist if you allow them to.

My boys love dolls and makeup and trucks and video games, because they’ve been encouraged to explore their interests, whatever they may be, so long as they don’t harm others. They appreciate watching musical theater and then turning around and getting dirty. 

They have been taught to know the value of a person, that is not specific to being a woman or a man. They enjoy their individual worlds regardless of gender biases and are full of compassion and understanding.

So no, I’m not going to “try for a girl” – because gender on its own doesn’t bring additional love into a persons life or family – humanity and people do, regardless of their sex.

Please be sensitive when you ask these questions, lovelies. We should give back all the love to others.

Good Sunday vibes, y’all. 

The Pre-Teen.

Ya’ll, I am not a perfect mother. Not even close. I can’t even pretend to think that I know all there is to know about parenting.

And parenting a pre-teen boy, or PTB as I like to call them? Well, buy stock in coffee, because at this rate – that’s all that keeps me from doing this on a regular basis –

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Let me give you some insight on what I’ve learned so far on this ‘raising pre-teen boys’ journey.

While uninterrupted showers seem like an out-of-reach oasis to us – they’re not that important to pre-teen boys.

I’m convinced that the PTBs have evolved past the point of normal human smell detection, and can no longer compute their own odor.

However, the rest of us can, yet they are completely unapologetic about it.

Yes, I remember the days of wanting to shop at Deliah’s and Aeropostale for everything. But alas, I had boobs and an ass that could bounce a Toyota Camry into a ditch. So I shopped at more practical places, like Stage and Hot Topic.

But pre-teen boys? Who knows? Who knows what they want to wear?!

Seriously, I’m asking.

They’re at this stage of wanting to have their own style, but still not ready to commit to what that means. So you, as a parent, end up buying this hodge-podge of flannel shirts and things with emojis and obnoxious sayings on them alongside a TON of athletic shorts.

Honestly, I’m convinced that athletic shorts are the PTBs yoga pants.

For the love of all that is holy, the sass level is real. Forget a teenage girls, because these pre-teen boys have a level of sass that would put Carson from Queer-Eye to shame.

This is mainly because in PTB world, their little bodies are starting to flood with testosterone and it comes out as pure unadulterated attitude…like Ironman.

And anything can send them into a tangent.

Hair is out of place? Forget it. The sock goes up too high on the left ankle? Nope, not today. Mom doesn’t know who a certain YouTuber is? Get out of their way ma’am, because you’re about to learn.

Girls are now on the radar. They have been noticed. There are school dances happening and awkward first kisses, for some. All I can say about this one is this – beware of Axe.

Pre-teen boys equate love with excessive amounts of body spray.

“If I spray it, they will flock to me,” seems to be the going philosophy.

I have been awoken from a dead sleep by the smell of my own PTB bathing in an ungodly scent called “After Hours.” After hours?!? Young man, you are in bed by nine, you know nothing of what happens after hours, nor do you need to smell like it.

See, the body spray industry is partnered with the housing industry. This is because any sane person knows, if you let someone spray in the traditional “X” pattern they recommend on the bottle, you have to either move, or burn your house down. There’s just no coming back from it.

I have a board on Pinterest filled with zombie preparation stuff – not because I’m actually preparing for a zombie apocalypse, oh no. It’s because I’ve had to learn how to hoard food away from pre-teen boys.

They may as well be dinosaurs. Feed them an entire mammal – and in twenty minutes they’re looking for more.

As their legs are growing, they’re hollowing out. That’s the only explanation.
I bought a bag of Doritos once, gone. GONE. Devoured in one sitting by one, singular PTB. I’m vegetarian, and thought stupidly, “I’ll just buy more veggies for myself, because he would never eat those.”

Wrong. Nothing is safe.

And grocery shopping? I can help you with your resume because you’re going to need a second job and maybe even a second mortgage on the house to pay that tab.

Ah, yes. Our pre-teen boys are starting to form their own taste in things. This can be anything really, and will absolutely change on a weekly basis, so don’t get too attached to the idea that they’re interested in guitar playing, skateboarding, etcetera.

For example, ‘Trap’ music (I’m still trying to figure out what it is EXACTLY) seems to be the “in” music right now among PTBs.

The always hilarious cat videos from days of yore will still pepper your internet search history, but you’ll notice new things starting to pop up, like ‘parkour’ and ‘how to be a YouTuber.’

This is where you ensure the insurance cards are easily accessible. Parkour never ends well for PTBs who have friends with video cameras.

Gone are the days of the sweet-smelling baby whose face I kissed, and who would hug me in front of his friends. I have entered the world of having a pre-teen boy, one who smells within ten minutes of stepping out of the shower and eats everything in plain sight, including some things I’m not even sure are edible.

But you know, I wouldn’t trade one stinky minute of it.

The journey is always interesting. Always. Enjoy it. Write about it. You’ll look back and laugh…even though right now you may be drowning in Axe body spray and crying into your box of chocolates.


My Fight with the Middle Finger

The last 72 hours have been a journey, to say the least. On Saturday while I was out shopping with a girlfriend, Miles injured his leg. How? We don’t know. I have gotten tall tales ranging from sibling rivalry to dinosaurs.

After him refusing to bear any weight on it since Saturday, a trip to the ER, followed by a trip to the pediatrician because I wasn’t satisfied with the ER diagnosis, x-rays and a knee wrap – he seems to be walking more. Thankfully.

Enter Jack. Stay tuned people – this is where it gets good.

This kid has an infected finger – from biting his nails. Disgusting, I know. Yesterday I noticed that his left, middle finger looked slightly more sinister than normal and when I asked about it, he wouldn’t let me touch it. I knew better – but with the craziness of the previous 48 hours and the normal morning craziness in general, I convinced him to let me put peroxide on it and dress it with some antibacterial cream before going to school.

Negative. That did not work. It only seemed to anger his finger more.

Just the words, “Let me look at it.” Were enough to send him over the edge, complete with a downward spiral of tears, snot and screaming. With the amount of drama that coursed out of his tiny, ten-year old body, if he doesn’t work in theater, I will be highly disappointed.

I begged him to let me look at it. Overnight the infection had gotten worse – I’ll spare you the disgustingly graphic details, but trust me, it was nasty. Something had to be done. I had to either convince him to let me drain it at home…or take him to the doctor where they would drain it.

Today my friends, is the day Jack and I lost our ‘cool.’

I initiated the conversation with, “let’s go to the doctor and get it looked at.” This only caused a meltdown. I then tried to convince him to let me do it – which may as well have been me asking for him to give me a kidney.  After almost an hour of yelling back and forth at one another, me going full on WrestleMania on him to get him to the ground so I could just look at it, and him locking me out of the house – he let me back in and I got ahold of this left, middle finger, gave it one good squeeze, and bam. It was successful and started to drain.

But my God, that only released a bigger monster.

Let me tell you, hell hath NO fury like Jack when he is pissed and you’ve just pulled a Benedict Arnold type move on him.

What I can only assume was pure unadulterated hatred began coursing through his veins in every direction that pointed towards me. There were not enough parenting books in the world to save me now. He was devastated that I had done that to his finger. That I had LIED.

*Note: I did not lie, I told him I was going to do it…just not in one big swoop.

After another thirty minutes of this back and forth coupled with him missing the bus to school, I looked at it again. It was still pretty gross looking, so I washed my hands – literally and figuratively, and we went to the doctor.

Why didn’t we just go to the doctor first, you ask? Oh, because that would be the easy way out, and when have I ever chosen that path for my life? That’s not fun, and then there wouldn’t be these stories to keep you entertained.

After a long wait, we were finally doing the procedure in the doctor’s office. The doctor also told him, “Bud, if you had just let your mom finish the job, you wouldn’t have to be here. She knew what she was doing.”

I am not even remotely ashamed to say that I took great internal pleasure in that big, fat ‘Boo-yah! I told you so!’ moment, even if I didn’t let it show.

He’s my baby. I held his hand and dried his tears because he was scared. I let him squeeze every ounce of strength out of my hand while they lanced and drained the rest of his finger. It was awful – but had to be done. I hugged him and told him I was sorry for going all Randy Savage on him to get a look at his finger. I told him multiple times that I loved him and hated when he was sick or hurt. I reassured him that he was doing a great job and being very brave. I also threw in the phrase, that despite what he may think, I do know what I’m talking about sometimes. Much to his hesitation, he agreed.

Now he is enjoying showing me the bandage on the tip of his middle finger every chance he gets. And while I know he forgives me for pulling some 90’s wrestling moves in order to save his finger’s soul, I also know he is enjoying having the ability to flip me the bird without getting in trouble. I’ll let him have it, as long as he’s healthy.