Fourteen years ago today I gave birth to my son.
I had three daughters and then came my son. After that I made my husband have a vasectomy.
Not BECAUSE we’d had a boy, but because by then we realized just how insane raising children was.
We didn’t “keep trying” until we had a boy. People always think that.
We didn’t even KNOW we were expecting a boy.
We were just very… stupid… fertile…stupidly fertile.
You would think your fourth baby would just fall out…like you see on TV – Pregnant woman standing in bank queue “Oh dear. Maaahhh baby jest fell down maaah pants leg!”
Nope. Not my son.
He was super glued to my ribs.
Actually it was probably just an indication of things to come.
All he EVER says when I ask him to do something is…. “Hang on….I WILL….in a minute.” And a year goes by and I’m still waiting.
My labour was extraordinarily long with him.
Just too damned lazy to be born.
Well, he didn’t have to make the effort to breathe…in there.
I was doing it all FOR him.
Nothing much has changed.
Pregnant woman expecting a boy asks the doctor “When will I notice my baby move?”
Doctor -“When he’s about 18.”
Yeah, from the couch to the car, perhaps.
Only reason why boys know they have legs is because they have to put socks on the end of them.
My son’s idea of “cleaning his room” is to pull the blinds shut and drape a blanket over the window.
Dark = “clean”.
I have no idea of what’s in there. It’s all just vague dark shapes and things that crunch under my feet (crusty socks I suspect.)
I don’t understand boys. They are like an alien species to me.
Puberty makes them even more curious.
My daughters are fascinated by the whole morphing into a man child thing going on with their brother.
He’s like an interesting science experiment occurring right here in our house.
They’re always asking him “Have you got hair under your arms yet? Chest hair? Pubes yet?”
He’s either very patient, my son, or just too lazy to be embarrassed.
I thought having a boy last, with all these older sisters would somehow make him more….sensitive…Bring out more of his feminine side.
I was wrong.
I gave birth to a caveman.
It’s hard wired…this “man” thing.
They’re all the same.
It must be something in the testicles.
Oh LORD, when my son was born I thought I’d given birth to a pair of testicles with a head.
They don’t warn you about that.
The SIZE of them.
That’s all I saw, back lit by the spotlight shining behind him as they raised him up before my eyes like some sort of a trophy.
“It’s a BOY!” they said.
“Jesus. Will he be able to walk with those?” I thought.
Our daughters took great delight from the moment he was born in holding him up, naked, to examine these family jewels from hell, in every which direction and angle they could. AND took photographs!
My son lives on gallons of milk and peanut butter.
I swear that’s all he eats.
We can hardly see him underneath all that greasy hair and the most we hear him say, in a 24 hour period is “Bye.” When he leaves in the morning for school, and “Night” when he lumbers off to bed at night.
Actually it sounds more like “hwwaai” and “nwwaaai” but I’ve become an expert at translating caveman speak.
He’s even too lazy to use a knife at the dinner table.
“Cut your meat!” I say over and over.
“Hwwaaai” he says.
Lord give me patience.
I’m extremely ashamed to admit it but I actually swore at my son the other day.
In the whole twenty four years of being a parent I have never done that.
Don’t ever ask a fourteen year old man child to help you put a fitted sheet on a queen sized bed while you’re in a rush preparing for overnight visitors to arrive.
They just don’t know about bed making, or where corners are, or that yes it DOES matter that there’s this wrinkle the size of a branch running down one side of the mattress.
I did sincerely apologize afterwards for my head exploding.
Told him I felt really bad.
“Mwhhaaai”. He said.
Over the years I’ve kept a diary of all the funny things our kids have said. “From the mouths of babes”.
There’s nothing in there from my son.
How could there be? He hasn’t learned to talk yet.
But there’s a sweet side to my son. I’m psychic. I know these things.
He IS very caring, good with animals and small children (they don’t mind the grunting.)
One day, I just know I’ll be able to sit down and have a good heart to heart with him. Find out who, beneath all that greasy hair, this person living in my house, drinking all the milk, REALLY is.
Happy birthday SON!
Don’t worry…we’ll blow the candles out for you. I know that’s far too strenuous an activity for someone your age.