|Preparing for Brotherhood: Finny and his cousin, Reece|
Now that my belly is getting bigger and rounder, I’ve started telling Finny I’m growing him a baby in my belly. I want him to think this baby is our personal gift to him in an attempt to offset any jealousy that might occur once the baby is born (I think I probably read this somewhere). Last night, when I reminded him that there was a baby in my belly, he pulled down the top of my shirt and said, “I wanna see it!” Then, he kissed my belly.
So, how do I feel about my world being taken over by testosterone? The truth is: I’m delighted. Little boys, it turns out, are pretty wonderful people to have around. Oh, I know what they say about frogs and snails and puppy-dogs’ tails—just the babblings of a misandrist who clearly never met a man with a fantastic mother. My little boy is sweet and cuddly and lovely. He showers me with kisses, smiles, and affection. He’s sensitive and loving and friendly. And he thinks next to Blankie and Tissa, I’m just about the greatest thing on the planet. He laughs at nearly all of my jokes and stupid attempts at physical comedy, he thinks I have a marvelous singing voice and stellar dance moves, and he loves to hold my hand. It’s like having an even better version of David around. (David thinks a lot of my jokes are stupid and he runs and hides when I try out new dance moves. He does, however, still like to hold my hand.)
But, the good news is, it’s a pretty even exchange. I laugh at all of Finny’s jokes, think he has a marvelous singing voice and outrageous dance moves, and I love to hold his hand as well as shower him with kisses just about anytime I have him in my clutches. So, why wouldn’t I want another little boy just like him to pal around with everyday?
Well, I guess there’s that whole thing about boys not being as clean and tidy as girls. I may have more mud tracked through my house. I guess there’s that whole thing about boys being more physical than girls. I may have a few more fist fights in my house. And it seems that girls tend to stay closer to their parents than boys. I may have to travel a bit to see my sons.
But I’m not so worried. After all, it’s not all pre-determined by gender, is it? I do have some role to play in how they turn out. With a little training, I believe that I could convince my boys to make their beds and put the toilet seat down. With a lot of affection and attention to sensitivity, I believe I can teach my boys to be lovers instead of fighters. (We’ll talk birds and bees later, much later, but maybe sooner than 25 like my own dad did. Good work, Dad, trapping me in a half-daze at the breakfast table. At least you got it in before I got married.) With years and years of hard work in showing them what a total blast I am to be around, I’m even convinced that maybe just maybe someday they won’t be able to bear the thought of being more than fifteen minutes from home.
Besides the fewer the girls around here, the more clothes money there is for me. My boys and I may never attend a Mother-Daughter Tea or go out for Mani-Pedis, but I’d rather go for beers and a hike in the woods anyway. I wouldn’t even mind looking for frogs and snails, though puppy dog tails I could do without. So, bring it on boys. I can take it. Little league? No problem. Mud fights? Count me in.
But, just don’t expect to get out of the musical theater. Sorry, fellas. Man-up all you want: pound on your drums, crash all your hot wheels and blow all your millennium falcons to smithereens, but there’s no escaping West Side Story, Guys and Dolls and Sound of Music. You’ll know them all and love them all and believe me, my little lovers, someday, the ladies will be begging to hear you manly men sing just one more song from Funny Girl. They’ll eat it up. I promise. You can thank me later by marrying a girl as cool as me who would just die if she lived more than fifteen minutes away from her in-laws.