Boys, boys, boys

I am currently reading It's a Boy: Women Writers on Raising Sons (ed. Andrea J. Buchanan, 2005). It is making me think about being the mother to a son.

The first essays are about the shock and disappointment that the writers felt when they found out they were having a boy. The moment of truth comes for most at their ultrasound when the foetal penis makes an appearance. The women explore their expectations, their family histories and their hopes all in a desire to understand why they wanted girls and not boys.

I, on the other hand, wanted a boy. I even wanted several boys. If I were to fall pregnant again, I would not be disappointed with another willy in the family. When I was in my early twenties and dreaming of having a family, I always saw myself with sons. Long before I was pregnant, my mother predicted a son. All to make perfectly clear that boys have been on the menu for a long time.

But why?

I have been thinking about this as I read It's a Boy because it seems at odds with the prevailing sentiment. I look at my own life and think that I can explain the reasons why.

Boys are a foreign world to me. I never played with legos or blocks or trucks. I didn't have a wooden sword or toy soldiers or a train set. I had dolls and dresses and plastic high heels. The boys I knew as a child were boisterous and loud and full of agressive energy. They confused and fascinated me but I never understood them. Then I grew up. Men continue to fascinate and confuse me and I still don't understand them.

Now I get to buy my son train sets and small cars. I watch him run and jump and explore. By having a son I feel as if I have been given the opportunity to travel in an exotic and wonderful foreign country. My son is my passport and my guide. I feel so very fortunate.