I have been asked on more than one occasion if I am "going to try for a girl next time." The comment reminds me of shooting hoops, and sometimes no matter how hard you try, you just can't sink that 3-pointer.
A girl is not my 3-pointer. I don't even like basketball that much.
I think I'm ahead of the game with my two boys. In fact, when we were expecting our second child, my husband and I discussed whether or not we wanted a girl or a boy and we were undecided. If it was a girl, we'd have a set: one of each. If it was a boy: hand-me-downs, and they would play together nicely (or so we dreamed).
I was at the library with Hamish (see my first blog) in a vain attempt to introduce him to storytime. He must have been about 19 months, and to be honest, he just wasn't having it; he wanted to tear up the library; run, squeal, jump on the pillows, play with the puzzles... and he took one look at that little room with all the other kids and thought he was being left. As a stay-at-home-mom I am ALWAYS there, so dropping him off in childcare at the gym or church wasn't a happy thing for him at the time. But I digress.
In a brief quiet moment as I interested my eldest in a puzzle, I observed a woman with her young daughter several feet away. The woman appeared to be engaged in a wrestling match with the girl-child over the hair tie that Mom wanted to inflict on her clearly unwilling child. As Mom gave up and girl performed a convincing Cousin It impression, I looked down at my small terror, made of "snips and snails and puppy-dog tails." His white-blond hair was, as usual, a mass of disheveled curls a la "Red Rocker" Sammy Hagar as he intently jammed the letter Q on the hole for the letter O. I smiled.
I'd be just fine with another boy.
A girl is not my 3-pointer. I don't even like basketball that much.
I think I'm ahead of the game with my two boys. In fact, when we were expecting our second child, my husband and I discussed whether or not we wanted a girl or a boy and we were undecided. If it was a girl, we'd have a set: one of each. If it was a boy: hand-me-downs, and they would play together nicely (or so we dreamed).
I was at the library with Hamish (see my first blog) in a vain attempt to introduce him to storytime. He must have been about 19 months, and to be honest, he just wasn't having it; he wanted to tear up the library; run, squeal, jump on the pillows, play with the puzzles... and he took one look at that little room with all the other kids and thought he was being left. As a stay-at-home-mom I am ALWAYS there, so dropping him off in childcare at the gym or church wasn't a happy thing for him at the time. But I digress.
In a brief quiet moment as I interested my eldest in a puzzle, I observed a woman with her young daughter several feet away. The woman appeared to be engaged in a wrestling match with the girl-child over the hair tie that Mom wanted to inflict on her clearly unwilling child. As Mom gave up and girl performed a convincing Cousin It impression, I looked down at my small terror, made of "snips and snails and puppy-dog tails." His white-blond hair was, as usual, a mass of disheveled curls a la "Red Rocker" Sammy Hagar as he intently jammed the letter Q on the hole for the letter O. I smiled.
I'd be just fine with another boy.
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