Our family friend’s son little J is turning 5 soon. I don’t remember when his exact birthday is but we had a birthday BBQ for him the past weekend. There were a lot of little kids running around and had I known there would be that many kids (I mean come on, it’s a freaking park and I really couldn’t plan that part in. /facepalm) I would have left Rosie at home but I paid the price.
Anyways. Kids. There were so many of them. Especially boys.
When I discovered that I’m having a little dude, I was ecstatic. There is this silly little thing that my sisters and I call “The Kim’s Curse” because there hasn’t been a boy in my family for two generations. My parents tried four times only to be blessed with four amazing girls—yes, we’re pretty amazing. It’s silly, I know. But Helen was pretty obsessed about wanting a boy and in turn we became a little obsessed with it.
So yes, a little dude.
Family and friends with little boys of their own have been telling me (horror) stories of raising one. They’re supposedly the polar opposite of sweet little girls with no fear of dirt, bugs, and not at all bothered to miss the toilet at times. Oh and the volume that comes out of their little bodies would probably put a lion to shame as well.
I don’t mind dirt or bugs. I don’t mind wiping up urine (as long as it be my children’s) but the noise? I can’t stand noise… Now don’t get this confused with the cry of a baby. I love the sound of a baby’s cry because it brings out the maternal side to me and I get all googly eyed ready to coax said infant to joy (this happens with strangers’ babies too.. I won’t steal your child though I swear). But the war cry as a little boy
march stomps down the hallway with a foam sword ready in hand to conquer the couch-land is too much for my ears to handle.
Who knows? I might grow accustomed to raising a little boy. Urine and roars and all.