I have a lot of kids. That’s true any way you slice it up. I have a lot of kids, and I have a lot of boys.
Invariably, when we are out and about as a family, someone will take a look at all these kids who are all boys and stride over to us for one single purpose: to ask the question that burns in the minds of the most curious people.
“Are these all yours?” they’ll say.
We’ll laugh. Yes, we’ll say. These are all ours.
At this point, the conversation can take a number of turns—some of them more fun and entertaining than others. But one of my least favorites is when people reach for the next words they can think to say and those words happen to be: “You were trying for a girl, weren’t you.”
Sometimes people are only asking as a joke or out of curiosity. Sometimes they’re asking with derision decorating their question. I can always tell the difference. But it doesn’t matter with what intent they ask, this question always raises my defenses a little.
Husband and I will look at our wonderful boys and back at the well meaning person—we know they don’t always know what to say. We get that. It’s hard to know what to say to someone who’s made a different choice than you have, and we are quite the spectacle when we are out on the town. We realize all of this, and we try to be gentle and loving in our responses. But we’ll look them straight in the eye and we’ll say, “We were given six boys, and we’re happy about it.”
And our boys, who are always listening, will smile and go on playing.
Here’s the thing. Well meant questions are not always innocent, even if we intend them to be. I learned this back when my oldest was only five, and he said to me on the way to school one day, “If one of us died, you wouldn’t be that sad, would you?”
I was shocked by this question.
“What do you mean, baby?” I said. “Of course I would be sad. I’d be so very sad if I lost one of my boys.”
“But you said you only wanted four, and now you have five,” he said.
The whole world shifted under my feet. I felt unsteady for a moment. I remembered something that I had said as a joke, when another well meaning person had asked the very question that I’ve referenced above. I had just had my twin boys, and we had gone out for our first shopping trip with all of my children—a 5-year-old, a 2-year-old, a 1-year-old, and newborn twins. Husband was with me, for support purposes. Someone fawned over our twins, which was usual in the beginning, and then she stepped back from us and said, “You were trying for a girl, weren’t you.”
Husband and I, weary from lack of sleep and ready to be home in a place where we could relax a bit, laughed a little, and I said, “Well, you know, we thought four kids would be good, and then we got twins.”
My 5-year-old had interpreted this to mean that his daddy and I only wanted four children, and because we got five, we must not have wanted one of them.
So you can see how the question above might damage a boy who is listening. And boys are always listening. I don’t want them to ever think that one of them was unwanted because I longed for a girl. And of course I longed for a girl. Doesn’t every mother long for a daughter? But every mother also takes what she has been given and loves that child wholeheartedly, regardless of gender.
Now I have six boys. I have been able to tell my oldest son, who is 9, that his daddy and I CHOSE to have six. There is no doubt in his mind that they were all wanted. We did our own family planning, and this is the family we were given. I love this family.
But the comments have not ceased. People get quite creative in the way they ask or declare, “Are you going to try for a girl one more time?” “You were just trying for a girl and you got another boy.” “You really should try again.”
As if I am not perfectly and completely satisfied with my tribe of boys. As if I am lacking something.
I lack nothing.
My boys are amazing little people. They are strong, courageous, kind, and they love their mama in a fiercely beautiful way. I wouldn’t have traded any one of them for a daughter.
I used to discourage my boys from answering when people asked their daddy or me if we were trying for a girl. But I let them answer now. And they tell these well meaning people that they did have a sister. She died. And this is true. I am the mother of a daughter. I never got to hold her, but I am still her mother.
I know full well that most of the comments we get are completely innocent and all in jest. People don’t really mean any harm, and even if they do, I prefer to believe they don’t. The problem is that my boys are always listening, so I have to reframe these curiosities. I have to make sure that my sons always feel valued and know that they were welcome additions to our family, not means to another end—an end we never got to see.
I don’t want my boys to ever apologize for being boys because they think their mama would have been happier with a daughter.
The thing about wanting something—like a daughter—is that we don’t always know what we really need when we’re blinded to what we want. I needed boys so that I could become more comfortable with myself and who I am and what my body looks like. I needed boys so that I could give up my high expectations of a perfectly tidy, perfectly clean house. I needed boys so I could loosen up, have a little fun, be a little rowdy and gross if I wanted.
And let me tell you, I have perfected my childhood dreams of becoming the Best Burper at the Table. Which is perfectly alright with me.
This is an excerpt from This Life With Boys, the third book in the Crash Test Parents series. To get access to some all-new, never-before-published humor essays in two hilarious Crash Test Parents guides, visit the Crash Test Parents Reader Library page.
