How Having Girls Taught Me I Am a Better Boy Mom

Having Girls Taught Me I Am A Better Boy Mom

All I ever wanted to be when I grew up was a mother.

That is exactly what I told my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Lacy – I was going to grow up to be the mom of six kids; three of my own and three adopted.

So when the time came and I became pregnant with my first child, I didn’t care what the sex of my baby turned out to be. I was happy just to be having a baby.

He turned out to be a son.

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Not even six months later, I got pregnant again. Since I had already bore a son, I thought it HAD to be a girl this time. Nothing else was a conceivable notion to be toyed with, even momentarily. A girl would make my little family picture perfect complete.

The first twenty weeks seemed to take forever to pass by, as I grew more and more excited by the day.

The first twenty weeks seemed to take forever to pass by, as I grew more and more excited. Click To Tweet

When the day of my ultrasound finally came, I was certain that everything in my future would be pink and purple, paisley and floral-patterned. Princesses, ballerinas, ribbons, and tulle would rule my world.

Having a little girl was all I could focus on; my heart was set on having a daughter.

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Lying on the exam table of an eerily darkened ultrasound room with my shirt pulled up and the waistband of my pants rolled down, I anxiously awaited the initial exam to be over with.

I kept running through all the girl names I loved, trying to keep my mind occupied on something other than my full bladder.

Soon, the ultrasound tech had had enough of jabbing my swollen stomach with the ultrasound wand; the measurements taken of the still developing fetus recorded for review by my doctor.

She was ready to get the real show on the road. I was so sure my dreams were about to come true.


Are you interested in finding out the sex of your baby, Miss?”, she asked.

Would, “HELL, YES!”, have been too inappropriate of a response to give this clearly reserved lady waving around the magic wand about to make my dreams come true? Because that’s exactly what she got from me. I couldn’t contain my excitement any longer.

The moment the ultrasound technician centered on the nether regions, however, my fantasies shattered.

I knew exactly what I was looking at without her having to say it aloud – there was a penis showing on that screen, clear as day.

I fought back the urge to jump up and run as far from that wretched room as possible. My stomach knotted and the air from my lungs sank into the pit of it, causing gas to begin bubbling and rumbling with a vengeance. My bladder came roaring back to life with a sense of urgency, no longer numbed by the anxious anticipation of my dream manifesting itself into reality. If I didn’t relieve myself soon I was going to piss my pants right there on the exam table.

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Everything was spinning.

Feelings of hopelessness and dejection washed over me with a fury. It felt like someone really close to me had died and the news had just been broken.

I couldn’t believe it. Didn’t want to believe it. I was in shock.

I was having another son. I didn’t want another son.

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A few years after the birth of my second son, I wound up having that baby girl I wanted. Then I was blessed with the birth of a second daughter shortly thereafter.

I was in for the greatest discovery of my life…

At eighteen months old, my second born decided to propel himself head first into a cast iron dresser drawer handle which wedged itself into the top of his skull.

My second born decided to propel himself head first into a cast iron dresser drawer handle.. Click To Tweet

It was no big thing for me to pry him loose, apply pressure to the gaping hole in his skull as we rushed him to the hospital, then hold him down as the ER physician stapled him back together and blood drenched the both of us.

Soon after that my oldest son scaled the floor-to-ceiling bookcase in the living room, leaping off onto the couch before I could reach him.

Their daredevil ways have only grown with them over time. Broken bones, stitches, and concussions are the norm around here. While these typical boyish antics cause many other mothers to fret with worry over safety concerns, they don’t phase me a bit.

While these typical boyish antics cause many other mothers to fret, they don’t phase me a bit. Click To Tweet

Yet, sometime around that same age, both of my daughters began acting very prissy and dramatic.

I quickly came to realize how much this behavior actually annoys me. The ear-piercing cries over the wrong shade of pink nail polish, dripping of ketchup onto their frilly dresses, and the tiniest of spiders crawling across the ceiling are so much more nerve-wracking than the pained screams from their brothers’ serious injuries.

They balk at the idea of playing in the mud after a rainy day or rough-housing with their older brothers. These girls tip-toe around like Prima Ballerinas and sob for hours on end over something as silly as a bump to their funny bones or breaking their favorite color crayon.

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The boys have always been content throwing on whatever clothing they can grab out of their drawers without effort. Single layers of t-shirts and jeans and they are good to go. Doesn’t matter to them whether they match or not. Nothing ostentatious about the process. Clothing is just a means to cover their bodies, and that’s it.

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There isn’t even a fuss about doing their hair since they both prefer to keep their locks buzzed. Easy peasy.

But the girls… oh, the girls. They take hours upon hours to pick and choose an outfit which consists of many different layers of buttons, ties, ruffles, and zippers that they cannot do themselves just yet.

To my surprise, glitter and sequins blind me. Pink overload nauseates me. The cries over having nothing good enough to wear when their bedroom floor is a mountain of clothing infuriates me.

Then there’s the battle of their hair. Every day is a struggle to detangle a tangled rat’s nest of knotted hair. No matter what hairstyle they beg me to do, they will decide they hate the way it looks the second I set the comb down. They’ll want me to brush their hair out a second time to wear it down. Twenty painful minutes later, there’s a good chance they’ll change their minds all over again and ask you to pull it back up.

Twenty painful minutes later, there’s a good chance they’ll change their minds.. Click To Tweet


When I’m with my sons, I feel so much more relaxed. They understand my sense of twisted sarcasm and revel in it.

We laugh over farts and burps, make references to poop, and point out all the nasty smells we come upon. My boys are such a riot when you get them going and are easy to please so long as you feed them.

My sassy daughters, on the other hand, think I’m just as disgusting and gross as their older brothers. Everything I do is embarrassing to them. Everything I ask them to do turns into a showdown at the OK Corral.

Unless it involves makeup, princess fairies, or fancy tea parties, they are uninterested. It’s hard to joke around with them as they take life so dang seriously.

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Getting what I wanted has turned out to be nothing like I expected. Having girls only proved to me that I was better off sticking with all boys. I’m not cut out for all the girly-girl dramatics they bring to the table. I really should have known better, since I am not very girly myself. You live and you learn.

I guess this is why they always say, “Be careful what you wish for,” because I surely was not cut out for this parenting of girls gig. I am simply meant to be a boy mom who should have quit while she was ahead.

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