Lately, I've been thinking a lot about how thankful I am that the baby turned out to be a boy (much to everyones surprise in the operating room*). I wouldn't even have the slightest idea how to raise a girl (not that I know what I'm doing with the boys, all I can say here is I am definitely not a girly-girl). And it's not like the relationship with the woman who raised me leaves me with the warm and fuzzies, so the thought of not having to deal with the mother-daughter dynamic is quite relieving - although I would have loved a girl as much as I love the boys that I have, I would have been terrified of the outcome (Mr. Lady says it better than I can).
However, I'm not the only one that only has the y chromosomes to deal with.
Linda has been lamenting the presence of so many pensises, and Mrs. Glamore has more than opened my eyes to what life with the boys will be like when they get older (omg, Hubby and I have got to relax if we're going to come close to dealing with what's been thrown her way with anywhere near half the grace that she has).
In fact, it looks like Julie, Linda, Mrs. Glamore, and myself should start a support group or something. I mean, we're tasked with raising men! Nice, considerate men who might some day grow up to be your daughters husbands (if that's what they're into, that is) - what have I gotten myself into?
Wait a minute! Who said my kids were going to be allowed to have sex?
On second thought, maybe I should have stuck witht he four legged variety of children - at least I was able to get them "fixed". I don't think I'm allowed to do the same to my boys - darn it!
*we didn't find out what the baby was before it was born. Hubby was convinced it was a girl because he saw the ultrasound tech write the letter f (for female?) on the screen before turning it away from him. I was convinced it was a girl because the pregnancy was so very different from my first. I should have know better though - the next door neighbor has five girls, the law of averages was against us from the word go.