Thoughts on Motherhood

More Snakes & Snails & Puppy Dog Tails?

Not long ago I got to talking to another mom as we waited for our kids to come out of preschool. In the course of conversation I mentioned that my husband and I hope to have a third child someday and she immediately replied, “Gotta try for that girl, huh?” “Actually, if it were up to me we would have a third boy!” I answered, with just a tad too much vehemence. She just shrugged with a little smile and turned to meet her daughter.

On the drive home I was still a little riled up. Her suggestion that I must want a girl since I already have two boys felt like a slam against my existing children and a blatant assumption that if we do have a third boy I will be disappointed. As I replayed the conversation in my mind, however, I realized that I hadn’t been completely honest. The truth is that I am very, very glad that it is not up to me to choose the gender of our third (and presumably, final) child.

My sister, mother of three girls and one boy, and I have talked about the influence of our children’s genders a lot. She has pointed out how incredible it is that this huge, defining aspect of our lives is something we don’t control. Before I had my first son I vastly underestimated how my children’s genders would influence my life. Sure, the boys I saw did seem to prefer chasing each around with sticks to beading necklaces, but maybe it was just because no one had ever sat down to bead with them before. I vowed that I wouldn’t let my son’s gender determine the kinds of activities we would do together. I actually believed that I could influence my children’s temperaments by encouraging quiet, contemplative activities like collecting leaves to make collages in the fall and making colorful masks out of paper plates.

Have you ever seen a fly at a window continually beating its head against the glass, sure that if it just bangs into that spot enough times it will get through? That was me. When Finn was two I signed us up for a “Messy Art” class. On the second day he discovered that there was a gym in the same building and we spent the second half of the class playing basketball. Every class thereafter we spent less time doing “messy art” and more time shooting hoops until, on the last day of class, I didn’t even bother checking in at the art class before we went to the gym. By then we had been joined by three other moms with boys. Meanwhile, a classroom (and a world) away, 12 little girls sat happily rolling their marbles around in paint and artistically dripping food coloring into piles of shaving cream.

On a recent flight home from visiting family in Southern California our second son, Indiana, who was just shy of two at the time was making us crazy; jumping on the seat, slamming the tray up, pushing the light button and throwing anything he could get his hands on at the heads of nearby passengers. My husband finally resorted to letting him run up and down the aisle and as the two of them passed me for the third time Alan whispered (with surprising gaiety considering the circumstances), “This plane is full of little girls playing quietly with stickers and coloring in their coloring books.”

Now, none of this is to say that there aren’t little girls who prefer playing ninjas to Barbies or little boys who wouldn’t rather make masterpieces out of play-doh than throw dirt clods at each other but there does seem to be quite a bit of validity to the stereotypes. My boys are loud and messy and physical. They throw things and break things and I’m pretty sure their energy on any given day could power the grid of a small city. They are so crazy that when they slow down long enough to spontaneously wrap their little arms around my neck to carefully kiss me on the cheek or when they absent-mindedly place one of their little hands on mine while we’re watching a movie their tenderness leaves me a little breathless. It easily makes up for all of the matchbox cars I’ve taken to the head and the yogurt I’ve scrubbed off the walls day after day. The rarity of this quiet tenderness makes it all the more precious and the prospect of increasing this exceptional and wondrous affection leaves me a little giddy.

But just when I’ve decided that three boys would make me the luckiest mama ever I will see a little girl wearing a frilly pink tutu and sparkly red shoes and my heart will melt away. Suddenly I’m day dreaming about dance recitals and tea parties and a little girl who might want to wear my wedding dress someday.

Luckily, my boys usually quickly shake me out of my reverie, more often than not by head-butting me in the thigh or nailing me in the back with a Wiffle ball. And really, no matter what the future brings, right now this is right where I belong, scrapes, bruises, matchbox cars and all.




"Thoughts on Motherhood" is a monthly feature written by Sasha Graham. To read more Thoughts on Motherhood please visit our archives.