I grew up in a predominately female family and the few boys that we did have were always being doted upon. My family was old-fashioned and a son was like the grand prize. The boys carry on the family legacy after all, so you can imagine my surprise (and delight) when I gave birth to my two boys.
This cloud of superhero-ness, to me, has always surrounded mothers of all boys. Watching them run to and from soccer practice and baseball fields, handing over cleats and mitts to sweaty miniature men. I know that moms of girls do this same thing, but it just felt different to me, maybe because I already knew all about the girl thing. The lives of boys have always been so mysterious to me; I can remember watching my little brother grow up terrorizing the block and, though my mother raised us all with the same sense of excitement, she would always say, “A mother’s girls are her best friends, but there’s something different about a boy.”
I was nicknamed Miss Priss from the tender age of three when I fell in love with my very first handbag (it is important to note that our love affair is still going strong). I carried that bag everywhere, including the bathroom and to bed. I was the type of little girl who was used to tea parties, ballet recitals, and piano lessons. I loved sparkle and ruffles and would wear white gloves to the ballpark. I had the most decorated charm necklace on the block and knew how to curl hair like a pro. Mud-pies and sling shots were of unknown existence to me.
However, these days, instead of sipping tea from dainty porcelain teacups, I launch Tonka trucks off of the front porch steps to see whose can fly the furthest. I have to admit that I still have much to learn about the adventurous world of little boys. As hard as I try, I still squeal when Ace brings his newest friend home to meet his mom; last week it was a strange bug that looked like a grasshopper-moth hybrid of some sort.
