The perks of being the mom of a boy
My title is a bit misleading, as there are many, many perks of being the mom of a boy. AJ gets absurdly and righteously angry when he hears that I cried when I found out I was having a boy and not for happy reasons. Look, in my defense, I was young and I had a 2 year old sister, at the time, who was my world; I only knew how to deal with little girls. Little boys were out of my element and all I knew was that little boys were messy and if I tried to do their hair they got mad and kicked me. I want to apologize to my friends Andrew and Chris, who were too young to remember me doing that to them, but are old enough to read this now. My bad.
Being the mother of a boy has been infinitely perk-tacious. I made that word up, but it seems to fit. From birth, I have been fascinated by this kid. First, by his physical nature: his toes, a lot, his rosebud lips, the bellybutton I made talk to me that made him giggle. But now, I am fascinated by the amazing personality that has emerged from him in his quirky, adorable humor and thoughtful intellect. He asks questions that make me roar with laughter and some that make me want to cringe. Yesterday at work, my entire office was in stitches over a question he’d recently asked. We laughed for a solid 30 minutes and traded “embarrassing kid questions” for our entire lunch break. He is the catalyst for good things in my life.
One of the unexpected perks of being the mother to a boy was finding out that I love to watch little league baseball. If you have followed this blog for the last four years, or even the last year, you probably know that when spring rolls around I begin to get excited. On Facebook, I have noticed “Pitchers and catchers are reporting!!” on multiple accounts and I could really care less. Little League baseball is where the heart is for me. These little guys play with everything they have and don’t get paid a dime. My kid lives for his baseball days and, when the game is over, to tease and play games with his teammates while slurping down an icee.
Forget the Major Leagues. It’s going to be the Little Leagues that I will someday tell my grandkids. When I feel sad that the “good ole days” are gone, it’s going to be this that I remember.