The First Boy
When I was pregnant with my first son, I bumped into a local agent who handled the sale of our house. Excitedly sharing my news, she declared, “Having a boy first is ideal; it’s like getting the hard stuff out of the way!” I was left puzzled—did she mean boys were somehow a necessary evil, like dental work? I just smiled and nodded, hoping to decipher her logic later.
I thought that having a boy for a first pregnancy was pretty standard, on par with having a girl. However, it soon became clear that everyone had an opinion on the gender of your unborn child. My Aunt Lucy echoed the realtor’s sentiment, saying, “It’s wonderful to have a boy first, so he can look after his younger sisters.” Little did she know, that line would be rich with dramatic irony if my life were a play.
The Second Boy
Fast forward two years, and I found myself expecting my second son. Having moved from Boston to Georgia, we crossed paths with our realtor again. After expressing joy for our successful home sale, she added, “I just wish you were having a girl this time. That would be perfect.”
I could sense the mild disappointment in many people’s responses when I shared the news of my second boy. It wasn’t overwhelming yet. “Are you going to keep trying until you have a girl?” they asked, as if two boys were somehow a setback, and a third could fix everything.
The Third Boy
When the ultrasound technician revealed that I was having a third boy, she informed me of a special privilege: mothers of three boys earn a unique spot in heaven. What exactly does that entail? I imagine it’s a quiet space where you can use the bathroom without interruptions. Maybe even unicorns!
I had lunch with my mom that day and shared my acceptance of having another boy. She offered a sympathetic smile and said, “The only downside is that girls tend to be closer to their mothers as they grow.” Thanks, Mom. I’m working on cultivating that co-dependency in my boys, perhaps by introducing them to HGTV.
The Fourth Boy
After my conversation with Mom, I called Aunt Lucy to share the news about baby number four, and she quipped, “Well, call me if it’s a girl…” Clearly, the fourth boy was unworthy of much discussion.
By the time I reached my fourth pregnancy, people had largely given up on the hope that I might suddenly produce a girl. Most were just astonished that I was going for a fourth child at all, as the norm seems to be: two boys, then one more try for a girl.
Now that all four boys are here, folks act as if having four sons is the most captivating aspect of my life. They seem at a loss for words, simply exclaiming, “FOUR boys?!” as if that captures the entirety of our family dynamic.
For the record, we didn’t have our second, third, or fourth child with the intention of having a girl. While I would have loved a daughter, my feelings about it are akin to regretting, “Why didn’t we catch more movies before kids?” or “I really overindulged in cookies tonight.”
My boys are incredible, and I’m sure my imaginary daughters would have been equally amazing. By the time I was having my third, I thought of babies simply as babies; wanting a girl felt like wishing for a baby with red hair—nice if it happened but not a source of deep disappointment if it didn’t. I probably would have splurged on cute dresses if I’d had a girl anyway, so maybe it’s for the best.
And just to clarify, we’re not trying for a girl; we’re done having babies (knock on wood).
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