In 2008, I found out I was expecting. And the Oldest joined us in 2009.
In 2010, I found out I was expecting. And the Middlest joined us in 2011.
In 2013, on the very first day, I found out I was expecting. And that pregnancy. That baby. The reality of a third, only lasted 6 weeks.
And then, again in 2013, I found out I was expecting. And the Littlest squeaked out just before the calendar turned to 2014.
…
At the time of my pregnancy loss, I would say that was the hardest thing I’d ever been through. Losing a baby. It wasn’t just the loss of this idea. It was the loss of something that already felt a part of me. It was the loss of this person I’d never get to know. A person I was already starting to imagine in my mind. Even at 6 weeks. The loss, at the time, of what we thought might be our final link in the chain.
And as weird as this might sound, I’ve always been convinced that that pregnancy… even though it was a blighted ovum… even though the textbooks would say that no fetal pole means no life… I sometimes think that may have been our little girl. And maybe it just wasn’t possible for me to carry one.
I’ve only ever told maybe one or two people that. That I thought maybe that was our girl. And this… I thought maybe because one time… one time… I sent up a prayer for a girl. And maybe this was the reminder I needed that as I’d always stated previously, I’ve never cared about the gender.
But I really believe that maybe I just couldn’t carry a girl.
Is that crazy? Yes.
Do I wish we had had a little girl? Yes.
Do I wish we had had a little girl in place of one of our three boys? Not ever, for one moment of one day. Never. Not when I was pregnant with them. Not when they came out. I never for one second was disappointed. Not because I’m some superior type of mama. Just because, for me, it just didn’t matter.
But I still think, sometimes, about what it would be like to have a girl. Especially as the boys get older. And I get scared of them pushing away from mama. I think about how people look at me like I have 17 heads because I say I am so happy to be the mama to three boys. I think about the things people tell me I will miss out on given the fact that there is no other estrogen in our house.
I won’t go prom dress shopping. I don’t have Barbies {currently;)}. I don’t have a clue what Shopkins are. And I won’t ever go wedding dress shopping, unless my daughter-in-law feels comfortable enough having me there. I will never have a grandbaby that is my daughter’s child, which I think is a different kind of bond. I won’t get to tell my child, “I know exactly how that feels.” about so many parts of womanhood. And I am currently convinced that my house doesn’t stand a chance at surviving the years leading up to teenagerhood with three boys wrestling, throwing balls, and creating — all over the place.
Adversely, I am told, I won’t have to deal with the teenage drama. I’ll never have to teach a girl how to deal with a tampon. I won’t have to make a decision to put my daughter on the pill. I won’t have to be concerned about my daughter getting breast cancer. I won’t have to fear her being made fun of over trivial girl things. Or worse, worry about her being a mean girl. And I won’t have to think about purchasing $200 purses for a 16 year old drama queen.
But really… with the way of the world these days, there are also so many similarities in how people raise humans… regardless of gender. Boys can play with dolls — and mine do. Girls can play football. Boys can like Frozen. Girls can like Star Wars.
Whether I had boys or girls, I’d have to, at some point, have “the sex talk”, the “drinking” talk, the “be yourself” talk. Whether we had all pink or all blue, we’d end up having some yellow… some orange… and some phases where someone only wants to wear pajamas. Regardless of gender, I’d want to teach my children to be compassionate. Kind. Caring. And confident. Boys or girls, I’d hope that my kids would learn to respect the opposite gender, to know that girls can rock science and boys can rock writing, and of course, that God made us all out of love.
I sometimes wonder if she would have looked like me. A little girl of ours. Would she have had his strong genes? Or would I have had a mini-me that I couldn’t help but dress-up like her mama? Would she be rough and tumble with older brothers? Would she have talked earlier, walked earlier, done all the things… earlier… because, well, girls? Would she and I mix like oil and water because I’m overly-sensitive and so pumped up by estrogen? Would I constantly worry, even more than I do with my boys, about her self-esteem… telling her she is a beautiful soul… and that she is a total rock star … because I wouldn’t want her to hate her thighs, her size, or her mind? Would I even make a good “girl mom”?
I think God gave me exactly what I was meant to have. Three, curious, smart, active, strong-willed boys. And for them, I will always be grateful. I will always feel they are enough for me. And any thoughts of a girl are fleeting — when I see a curly-haired blonde chatterbox who will only wear dresses — and few and far between.
If baby #3 had survived the pregnancy, I don’t know what would have become of Harrison. He was made for us at the time that he was meant for. I can’t fathom not having him as part of us. So three boys it is. And three boys it will always be.
Maybe someday, we’ll have a daughter-in-law or two or three. Maybe not. I am fortunate to have beautiful Goddaughters. And so many friends with girls to give me partial experience of girls. And, of course, I’ve also always been a girl myself. So that seems to count. But if it’s always just mama and her 4 boys, that will feel just right, too. Because at least, when my heart longed to experience motherhood, I was given the chance. At least when I had troubled pregnancies, each and every one of them was a blessing. And at least I get to be here, right now, surviving-thrivine-experiencing the life of a #boymama. Even if there was a daughter in the mix that I will never know.
And I truly, madly, deeply, would never want it any other way.
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