I didn’t want a boy. I wanted a girl.
It never even occurred to me that I would not have a girl. I love girl stuff. I love Barbies, I love dress-up, I love sugar and spice and everything nice. I love pink! I am a girl. I know about girls, I would know how to mother a girl. But a boy?
What would I do with a boy? A boy! A boy that would bang his little cars on my coffee table, a boy with a jelly face and grimy hands, a boy who would bring me worms and bugs. And the noise! Oh, the noise, it would be like living in Walter Middy’s head. No thanks!
I put in my request for a girl early. I picked out her name. And then I waited. And I dreamed of a pink chintz Laura Ashley nursery and ballet lessons.
And I got a boy.
Yet more evidence that God knows what he is doing. And has a sense of humor.
Just in case you don’t already know, I am delighted beyond what mere words can express with my little boy. I love love love being the mama of a boy, this boy.
But when I go clothes shopping for my little boy and there are 25 racks of adorable little girl things for every one rack of picked over little boy t-shirts and denim shorts — it is then that I get a touch of little girl envy.
I sometimes even go up and down the racks and pull out little dresses and pet the ruffles and fluff the bows. And I sigh. And I think, wouldn’t it be nice?