I Wanted a Girl....

From the time I thought about having a baby until the moment I found out what sex this little one would be,  I wanted a girl.  In every imaginary scene that played through my mind, I envisioned a little girl, and our interactions were always wonderful.  I wanted a girl not because I dislike little boys.  In all honesty, I just don't know what to do with certain types of little boys, and I am fearful that there is a genetic propensity on my side of the family for such boys.  I know, I know....I need to remember that nurture often times outweighs nature.  

When I think of my husband, I am often reassured that not all little boys are like my relatives.  When my husband was a child, he was extremely polite and kind to other children.  He didn't like competition, and he wasn't prone to aggressive physical behavior.  I mean, my husband's idea of a good time as a small child was watching Dr. Who episodes or Jeremy Brett's renditions of Sherlock Holmes.  He wasn't exactly a GI Joe fan.  He also didn't suffer from that proto-mysogynism that the other type of little boys seem to suffer from (Think "Ewwww, Girls have cooties!"  And "They like sissy stuff!").  Not that girls also don't suffer from gender hatred at that age.  It's just that little boys seem to do so in such an adament way.  

My relatives and many other little boys I knew, on the other hand, were often physical and coercive.  They seemed to think that in order to achieve their aims, they must force other children into doing things.  They were competitive.  Every game or activity was about winning.  And they lacked inhibition.  I think of the time my little brother caught the mattress on fire trying to melt the face off of one of his toys or the time he and another cousin pushed a younger cousin off the top of a barn roof in order to show the younger cousin that he would "safely" land on the pile of hay below."  But he didn't land where they thought he would.  He broke his leg in the fall.  When I think of little boys like these, I recall the poem by Sharon Olds in which she recounts her son's birthday party.  She depicts the little boys as hardened generals.  Her final lines always haunted me:

We could easily kill a two-year-old,
he [Old's son] says in his clear voice. The other
men agree, they clear their throats
like Generals, they relax and get down to
playing war, celebrating my son's life. (Source) 

It is also not that I couldn't love a physically aggressive little boy who is like my relatives.  It is just that I'm not sure how I would go about trying to tame him, trying to convince him to be considerate and kind to others.  I was and am afraid that I will fail. And, in the off chance that my son is like his father, how will I protect him from such little boys?  How can I help him avoid aggressiveness while also protecting himself from harm and ridicule?  

I guess my point is that I know how to be a little girl.  I don't know how to be a little boy.  I could help a little girl work through any of her dilemmas, but I'm not so sure I'll be able to help this little one thumping away in my stomach right now.  I so dearly want to protect him.  

Surprisingly, when I found out at week 19 that I was having a boy, I wasn't disappointed.  A part of me seemed to know that he was a boy.  And how could I not begin to love or already love the little creature on the Ultrasound Monitor?  I automatically began to love all the propensities and traits he was beginning to show.  I loved him.  

At this point, I must simply resolve to be the best damn Mom I can be.  I must help my future little boy negotiate those influences in society that would prefer he grow up to be overly aggressive and narrow minded.  I must help him protect himself if those influences turn violent towards him.  I must help him become a good man, not for any notion I have about appropriate male behavior but for his own benefit--for his own sanity and comfort in this strange world of ours.