The first time I realized that I was the mother of boys was after our fishing trip a few weeks ago. Growing up I was never one of the guys. No one accused me of being a tom boy. I liked dolls. And sewing. I wasn't sporty. I read a lot- mostly Anne of Green Gables and Little House on the Prairie until I discovered Judy Blume and Danielle Steele. And if I could get my hands on a pretty dress, I wore it with exultation.
When boys did come into my horizon, I was just like all the other girls - passing notes, yearning for acknowledgement, and completely mystified.
I was never one of the guys.
And yet here I am, surrounded by them. I still like pretty dresses and writing notes. But find myself yearning more than ever for their acknowledgement.I want to fit in. I want them to like me, really like me. I studiously learn the difference between an excavator and a backhoe. I pride myself on knowing all of Thomas and his friends. And because I refuse to be mystified anymore, I devour books on the best ways to raise them and get downright adversarial when people misunderstand a boy’s nature.
I wonder sometimes how I’ll survive a lifetime of fart jokes and bathroom humour. I’m certain I will never enjoy touching the damned toilet seat and even though my mouth will be shut, I’ll likely roll my eyes every time they insist on wrestling it out.
I think it’s okay that I wore my pink frilly blouse to go fishing. I don’t want my boys to believe girls need to change who they are to be around them. I may not be willing to worm a hook but I brought the Doritoes and the sunscreen.
And I made sure all their outfits matched!
The ladies at the Red Dress Club wanted us to use the prompt The first time I _____ed, after I _______ed.