All my life I knew I wanted to be a Mom. I went through some periods of my life where I was such a vagabond, party-girl trainwreck work-in-progress that I thought maybe it wasn’t going to happen, that maybe I was too unbound, too reckless, too selfish to be a parent. But the untarnished part of my psyche, deep in my soul, wouldn’t still the thought of possible motherhood, and when I eventually grew out of that 10 year stage of being a total fuck up young adult development, I found myself with a really good and kind man, in college for my first time, and pregnant. I instantly knew it was a girl. I had a somewhat volatile relationship with my own mother, but regardless, she molded me in every way and in every thing that I knew of what womanhood was about. I couldn’t WAIT to raise my very own little feminist. I couldn’t WAIT to fix all those areas where my Mom had gone astray, to have that complete melding of two distinct persons, mother and daughter, where I would show my daughter all the amazing things about what it meant to be a woman. This was gonna be good.
On the way to the Ultrasound to find out the sex of the baby, my Hubs gently mentioned how no matter what the sex was, he’d just be relieved and happy to know it was healthy.
WHAT THE FUCK DID HE JUST SAY THAT FOR!? Now if it wasn’t my long awaited Féministe, it was totally going to be ALL HIS FAULT because he JINXED IT!!!! Did I mention I may have been just a wee bit hormonal? No? Well, I was. A little. Barely noticeable.
So anyway, there I am, laying on the exam table, freaking pissed off and hatefully glaring at this jerk who I’d have to raise a kid with waiting anxiously for the tech to come in, and holding my dear hubs’ hand for support. She finally comes in…can’t get a good look at first. Puts some more shocking cold gel on the wand..and voila! She says, “Do you two want to know the sex?” and we both say YES! She says, “Well, that right there is a penis, see? That little shape right there?”
Time stood still.
But it was not too horrible, I WAS still having a baby after all! And he was soooooo cute, and waving, and doing cute little flips…and I knew I could try again. So my little girl would have a big brother, even better! He could show her what a good and kind person looks like, could weed out the asshole’s when she started dating. This could actually be a very good thing.
When we went for #2’s Ultrasound, Hubs knew not to even say anything. I had of course again decided thatthis was the girl I wanted. She was due December 30th, the day after Lucky had been born! I had already chosen her name: “Noel”. I practically ripped the ultrasound thingy from the girl because she seemed so young and inexperienced. I knew what I was looking for, thankyouverymuch. She finally asked if we wanted to know the sex. YES!!! we practically shouted. It’s a BOY!! She squealed back!
Well, shoot. I knew two was our limit. We hadn’t really talked about it, but we had gotten pregnant again because I didn’t want Lucky to be an only child and to be honest, we knew that we were probably stretched thin enough as it was. So I mourned a little, but called my older sister when I got home and she said, “You know Amanda, it’s even more important sometimes to raise the MEN to be feminists.” And I realized she was probably right. So I would be the woman in their lives that showed them the way to be a good man, to respect and cherish women for what they were. This was going to be okay. This was good.
Baby #3. Baby #3’s existence was confirmed on that little plastic pee stick while Hubs was on his way home from the appointment where he deposited $45 for a Vasectomy. But everything was so different with this pregnancy…TOTALLY different time of year, instead of the end of December she’d be born in July, I was carrying different, none of the same cravings, and the appointment to find out the sex was on my BIRTHDAY, for the love of GOD! My little girl was in the bag!!! And with two big brothers, to boot! She would be the most epic of all tomboys!!! She would take no shit! She would ROCK.
Except, she was a he. Again. I was so brokenhearted. I confess, I really was. I called my friend on the way home and just cried and cried. Hubs tiptoed around me for days. I know, so selfish and wrong, right? I had been blessed with another perfectly healthy, perfectly loveable and wonderful miracle. I can’t justify or explain my feelings, but over the course of the pregnancy, I did get over it. And for Fireball’s sake, I thought, thank goodness it’s not a girl, because then the transition for him becoming the middle after being “the baby” for such a short time would be even worse. He’d have to compete with a baby, and his Mom’s “Rêve” (dream come true) would be a girl.
I just suddenly pictured Sunday mornings in bed, pig piles of boys feet and knees, sticky grape-jelly kisses. Reading them my favorite authors regardless of sex, showing them how to make cookies, do the dishes, fold laundry, BE A MAN.
I had been tasked with the utmost challenge: to raise three decent and honorable men in today’s “shock and awe” World, where the concept of masculinity is shoved down boys’ throats in the most aggressive and depressing ways, where being called a “sissy” was worse than a broken bone, because implied feminine characteristics in a man is something to be ashamed of, where the notion of feminine beauty is packaged and sold and shot out of the marketing cannon straight into the hearts of little girls all over to be thin and pretty and demure and NICE, and those who don’t fit the mold make themselves sick to the point of death to be considered “desirable”. That I would be the one to teach them that true beauty really is inside a person, not in their face or body, when sometimes I struggled to believe that in myself. That it would fall on me to teach them that No ALWAYS means No, and to look the other way is to aid the bully or tormenter. That if they ever see a girl passed out at a party, they need to call me or her parents IMMEDIATELY, and do not leave her alone for one minute. That more important than winning is to keep trying, that more important than being popular is doing the right thing. That a meaningful life takes many forms, and no one ever lay on their deathbed wishing they’d worked more. That all these things that I thought I would be so much better at teaching a daughter, I now try to sprinkle into my three sons’ consciousness. And this is gonna be so, so,good.
@AtypicalMiriam I am frightening *and* tall 😂
@AtypicalMiriam He fears me. I am the only female I this house. All penis people live in fear.
Me: Just ripped the ass out of my pants. I mean, they were OLD pants, but I feel like it's because I was bigger than I was 10 years ago. 10yo: Everyone's bigger than they were 10 years ago! I am! Me: YOU WERE AN INFANT 10 YEARS AGO 10yo: ... 10yo: *slowly backs out of room*
Person on tv: Age is just a number! 10yo: Yeah, a number that pulls you closer to death.
Party animal over here pic.twitter.com/OVpKPuu4Yc
Proving to my kids that they ARE Friends goo.gl/fb/QbSSNp
Writing my next book Me: My period inspired a whole new chapter! Husband: Your lack of period inspired a whole book... Me: pic.twitter.com/fpNHwnYeAF
The card my kid made me at school. I truly don't know why I expected anything different 😂😂 pic.twitter.com/T7nai0ycqS