I always thought I wanted a girl. Now I think, why? I was
never particularly girlie. I was often mistaken for a boy in childhood (could
be because I dressed like an extra from an amateur production of Huckleberry
Finn…). And now I feel like I live in a particularly girlie part of the
world—big bows, braids, smocked dresses. Not that there’s anything wrong with
that, but it’s not me.
I helped build General Grievous’s Lego ship before 8 am. I
can name all of the Rescue Bots. Some show up to the gym in full make up and “I
don’t sweat, I glisten” shirts; I show up in Target active wear and sweat…a
lot. I’m a half-drowned rat doing burpees.
I often complain about how horrible middle school boys are (Jeremy
always reminds me that middle school girls are no treat, either). I know I’m
going to have to get over it in the next 6 years or so, when I’ll be parenting
one of those beasts. A particular bad memory is from 8th grade, when
a kid was handing me a paper or something and said, “Here you go, big girl.” Of
course, he was talking about my boobs. Now, this kid was probably
four-and-a-half feet tall and 80 pounds. All I had to say was, “Thanks, little
boy.” But of course I didn’t.
I also kicked a home run in kickball once, and a guy on my
team pretended to offer me a high five, then pulled his hand away at the last
minute. Like, why? I didn’t see YOU kicking any home runs (perhaps THAT’S why).
I should have pretended not to see him pull his hand away and high-fived him in
the face. Again, I did nothing.
Still, I have great hope for my wonderful kid. He loves PJ
Masks, and is happy to pretend to be Owlette. A woman at Disney World was
teasing him about his Darth Vader shirt. When she told him she found his shirt
scary, he offered to cover up Darth Vader with his hand so she couldn’t see
him. He calls me beautiful and kisses me on the hand. He is a sweet, caring,
sensitive, hysterical little boy, and I wouldn’t want him to be anyone other
than exactly who he is.
That being said, I also clean up a lot of pee off of the
floor.
