I grew up with three sisters and a younger brother. I’m the fourth of five. The baby girl. Accustomed to never getting my way as a child, but interested in everything my sisters did (curling hair? wearing glasses! doing homework! listening to the Indigo Girls? yes, yes, yes, yes).
Somehow I always assumed we’d have tons of girls and *maybe* a boy in there. The ultrasound tech telling us that the baby was a BOY at 20 weeks with our oldest made me kinda faint inside.
Boys equal noise, no snuggling, video games, rough housing, and running away from their moms.
That’s what I thought. And my brother is a great guy, so I don’t even know where I came up with these ideas about little boys. I was terrified.
Now I watch my daughter, almost four!, sandwiched between her brothers and I can’t imagine it any other way for her. Yes, she can throw an elbow or erupt with a screeching growl like none other. Literally, her throat makes noises that could scare a wild boar. But she likes it this way. She does long for a sister “a baby one she can hold all the time,” but she loves her boys.
So much for how we think our children will be, or how our lives will go. We really don’t know, do we? And that’s truly part of the beauty of it. I can control so much (and so little) of my life. Who my kids are and how they will flourish and scuffle in their birth order? Not anywhere close to the top of that list.
Really, the only thing on the list of things I can control is whether or not I’m going to demolish the puddle of fudge my mom just made. I won’t tell you how many spoonfuls I’ve had this morning. Not. Telling.