Some women seem to have a sixth sense about the gender of the child they are carrying. During my second pregnancy, I thought I was one of those women. I just knew the baby inside me was a girl. Everyone else agreed:
“Oh my, you’re carrying that baby high,” one neighbor commented. “It’s bound to be a girl.”
“Wow, it’s heart rate is sure up there—165. I bet it’s a girl.”
I was already convinced. A second girl, I thought. Great.
Then came my surprise. After five short hours of labor and two pushes (I know, I’m a horrible woman!) a robust nine-pound, eleven-ounce baby presented itself to the world.
“Lynn, you have a healthy boy,” my doctor proclaimed as she placed my son on my chest.
“A boy? Oh, a boy,” I gushed, surprise turning to delight. I had been prepared for a girl, but how much different could raising a boy be anyway?
God had another surprise waiting for me. As I’m sure I don’t need to tell the mothers of both girls and boys, there are pronounced differences.
I first really noticed the differences with my son when he was about a year old: “Vrroomm, vrroomm,” he had said while pushing his cars around the room.
I had never heard my three-year-old daughter accent her play with such noises. “Did you teach him that?” I asked my husband. “No, I thought you did.”
“Oh sure,” I mocked. “I always say vrroomm, vrroomm when I play with cars, or drive down the street.”
As my son grew older, I noticed other differences. He always adored me. While my daughter had gone through that “I want my daddy” phase, he wanted “his mommy.” While my daughter would hug me gently, cuddle sweetly next to me, or stroke my face softly, he would literally jump into my lap, try to climb my body and hang ten from my hair.
“I assume it’s normal for a four-year-old boy to run from across the room, tackle his mother, and nearly knock her to the ground,” I asked the doctor at my son’s well check-up.
“Yep, I’m afraid so,” the doctor said. “It’s all that testosterone. You know, snips and snails and puppy dog tails.” That same year, I became a mother for the third time—a second girl. As they all grew, the differences became more noticeable. I watched my son as he played Barbies (make that action figures) with the girls. He could be exceptionally gentle with them. But put him with another boy and look out. I learned that lesson the hard way.
“Hey, could you watch Sammy after kindergarten two days a week?” a neighbor had asked. “Yes, I guess so,” I replied. After all how hard could it be? I had watched little girls before, and frankly, two five-year-old girls were better than one. The girls played house for hours. It got so quiet, at times, that my “mommy radar” would be alerted. I would have to go upstairs to see that they were still alive and not getting into mischief.
With the boys, my radar was alerted for another reason. BOOM, BANG, SCRAPE, KERPLUNK.
“Hey you two, what’s going on up there?”
“Nothing,” two little voices replied.
“Well nothing sure is loud, you think you can keep it down?”
They couldn’t. I would go upstairs to see them locked in friendly combat rolling around on the floor of the room. Grey hairs sprang forth from my scalp.
The difference that is the most difficult to deal with, though, is my son’s attitude toward me in public. When I volunteer in their classrooms, the girls come rushing toward me, lock their arms tightly around my waist and, if I’m lucky, plant a soft kiss on my cheek. But not my son. He will acknowledge my presence only with a nod of the head. If I should move toward him, he’ll give me the “kiss me and you die” look. Indeed, his aversion to kisses provides me with a great deterrent for bad behavior: “You better shape up boy, or I’ll come to school, find you on the playground, and plant a big, wet kiss squarely on that cute little cheek,” I tease. He straightens right up even though he realizes that I’m no more likely to do that than I am to show up at the bus stop in my bunny slippers and robe. But both threats are good behavior boosters.
Yes sir, boys and girls are different. One is not better than the other. Both genders are endearing in their own way. And even if my name has been changed to “Ma,” I think I’ll keep my son and revel in the differences that lie ahead.
Lynn Dean is a Colorado writer and the mother of three. She loves to wrestle her son into her lap and try to plant a kiss on his squirming face.He loves it too!