Redefining Traditional

Growing up in a family of girls, I was convinced if I ever had children, I was having boys. Clearly, there was no way I could insure the gender of my children, but I had never been able to envision myself a mother to girls. As fate would have it, I was blessed with two sons. Everything I thought I knew about boys came from living with sisters. Mistakenly, I believed all the sexist views and stereotypes that have long divided men and women. Motherhood came as a shock, but I embraced every moment, having absolutely no idea just how raising boys would challenge everything I thought I knew about genders, not to mention life.

Weekday mornings were often full of arguing over how long someone was in the shower, and vying for that cornered real estate known as the bathroom; otherwise known as three kids getting ready for school in a house that had one bathroom. Eventually, my father put in a half bath upstairs, though this did little to deter the hectic a.m. rush. Hair product, curling irons, hair dryers and make-up strewn across the sinks and vanities, it's a wonder my mother ever managed to get out of the house for work. I have little doubts my father was grateful he was on his way to work by the time we girls roused for the day.

Like the morning routine, shopping was a tiresome battle. Of course it was more weathering hormones and wants on a budget and limited patience. Having boys, I knew this would never be a battle I fought. Nor would I compete for bathroom time, or share my hair products. Those mountains of laundry we produced in two days, were not going to plague my parenting days. I'd breeze through the early years without so much as a whisper of the heartache caused by friends fighting, and there would be no emotional meltdowns over trivial things like 'not having anything to wear'. Yes, I had won the lottery by giving birth to sons.

Oh how crazy wrong I was! The first few years were pretty much what I had expected; there weren't a whole lot of differences in temperament before the age of five between boys and girls, at least not from what I had seen. Meltdowns over bizarre, or seemingly minor things was the first of my ridiculous illusions to shatter. By far, one of my sons was more of an involved example of how a toy not working the way he intended could lead to fits of tears, screaming and flailing about, but the foundation I had based my enjoyment and success in motherhood on was beginning to crack. Boys were prone to inexplicable freak-outs?! 

Once I'd accepted that first realization, and my error in ever assuming that gender dictated emotional meltdowns, the rest of the facade I'd created and believed to be true began to crumble. "Mom, I want to wear those pants" or "I hate that shirt" were increasingly regular whine-fests that plagued my previously calm mornings. Name brands and style soon ruled supreme, dumbfounding me, because boys weren't supposed to care what they looked like. How could I have been so blind?

The mood swings of adolescence reared their ugly heads, complete with crying jags and "you don't love me, you love my brother more". Peer blow-outs, the sudden switch from fighting to get them to shower to pleading with them to save hot water for the rest of the family, and the vulnerable side of their personalities exposed because...well...girls. By the time middle school was in full swing, I was forced to admit everything I had ever thought was going to be the best part of parenting boys was so entirely wrong. I would never have imagined that I would essentially be starting over as a mother just before my oldest son started high school, but that is exactly what I had to do.

Trying to throw out all of my preconceived notions about how sons would be a cake-walk compared to daughters, the trip back to Go was overwhelming. I mean, my relationship and love for each of them was unchanged overall, but how I interacted with them, and eventually gained some semblance of understanding of who they are - that took time. I had to reconcile the fact that my boys, and I'm betting almost the whole of the male gender at some point take an interest in their appearance, feel left out, rejected, giddy with infatuation, silly, moved to tears, and define their own sense of what being male is without conforming to traditional (and outright wrong) gender roles.

There are still moments that I find myself falling back into viewing my sons through the sexist filter of stereotypes. If I fail to recognize this, one of my sons is sure to point it out. No, being a mother to boys has turned out to be little of what I had anticipated. I'm glad, and here's what I know:

Each child is a collection of emotions, likes, dislikes, interests, fears, desires, goals, personality and love that won't ever truly fit into a predetermined mold simply because their body exhibits a gender often associated with some of those things. Being a mother of sons is amazing. There is rarely a dull moment, always room for laughter, and every moment that passes was an opportunity to love them with every ounce of my being. For certain, there are differences between parenting boys and parenting girls, but they aren't as numerous, or as obvious as I had previously believed.

My sons are my children, and I hope that I have learned to love them more in the ways they deserve because they are unique individuals, then simply because they fit some sexist definition of what boy means. I know that growing up girl, and raising boys is only a fraction of what having children can be defined by. I am a parent; I have sons, but I am a mother to two incredible, loving, creative, loyal, and ever-evolving individuals. I have never been more grateful to have traveled a road and learned the lessons I have. Never limit others, especially when what you're gauging a person with cannot begin to encompass their entire worth.