When I got pregnant, I was sure I was having a girl. Everyone thought I was having a girl. I think I believed that I could just will it to be true. Spoiler alert: I had a boy.
The following are just a few reasons why I’m glad my little man is a little man:
Girls like princesses and Barbies. Okay, most girls. I, personally, never did. But the odds are that if I had a girl, she’d be into Disney and all things pink. Fuck that noise. I’ll take light sabers and train sets over tiny plastic shoes and purses any day.
Girls appear to cry all the god damn time, in my limited experience. They cry when they can’t find their favorite doll. They cry when they can’t have ice cream for breakfast. They cry when the play date comes to an end. My boy only cries when he’s injured, or tired. Sure, he has his epic screaming meltdowns where I’m convinced that he’s possessed by a demon, but if he was crying, I’d have to feel bad for him. And we’d probably spend a lot more on tissues. (Not true in my experience, Jenn. My boy is way more of a little bitch than my girl. Ha.)
Oh, while we’re at it, I’m saving money on toilet paper, too! Of course, I spend more on cleaning products for the back and sides of the toilet, so maybe that one’s a draw, huh?
If I had a girl, I’d have to worry about when she’s old enough to wear makeup and high heels. The boy, knock on wood, will never put me through that. He’s been wearing jeans and t-shirts since he was three days old, and he will continue to wear them throughout his life. The only way he could upset me, fashion-wise, is if he went through a polo-and-khakis phase. Shudder.
And the products! I spend enough on my own conditioner, face potions, nail polish and all that jazz. The boy will only require a stick of deodorant, a bottle of blue hair dye, and a tube of Clearasil. And that’s only if he ends up with my skin; his father has only had two zits in his entire life. Asshole.
I have never seen a male human take a break-up badly. Ever. When a girl gets dumped, she cries for days, or even weeks. She is utterly inconsolable. I would not be able to handle seeing my baby go through that. A boy, I’m pretty sure, just shrugs and mumbles something like, “Whatever, she was a bitch anyway.” Then he plays some video games and he’s all better.
He will never have a period. Which means I will never have to break the awful, awful news to him about periods. I was once told a story by a woman who had to teach a little girl all about her monthly visitor when it first arrived. The girl took all the information in stride, up until the end, when she was told, “So, you’ll want to mark your calendar today, and that way you’ll know when to expect it next month.” The poor thing cried out, “You mean it’s going to happen again?” That will never be me.
Thank goodness for little boys.
Jenn Rose is a stay-at-home mother to one boy in Massachusetts. When she’s not parenting, she’s watching way too much TV and drinking a little too much wine (not chardonnay). Jenn is a staff writer at In the Powder Room, and she blogs at Something Clever 2.0. She hopes to become a zombie when she dies.