Speaking of daughters (we were, weren’t we?), we’re back down to only one at home.
For a season.
But, still.
There’s a lot of testosterone in this house. A lot of “It’s a sword!” and “Watch me jump off this, Momma!” and “Can I get a bandaid? I slipped with the hatchet.” (Whaaaaaaaaaa?)
At any given moment, I am knee-deep in telling someone not to really throw a projectile at the apple balanced on someone else’s head (“Just pretend, guys! Just pretend!”), folding yet another Star Wars T-shirt, and reminding a small person to keep his hands out of his pants. If you have boys, you know what I mean, and you’re laughing. You’re laughing because just before you sat down to read this, you were doing the same thing.
Normally, there’s a little more grace bringing levity to my days here. Mary Hannah’s presence somehow seems to break up just a little of the masculine around here — kind of like adding a chunk of potato to broth that’s too salty. I can’t describe how the effect works, exactly, but I know that at the end of the day, somehow I feel a little less overwhelmed by boys, and a little more balanced.
But Mary Hannah is gone for another stretch, and I find myself parenting just one sole girl in the course of a day.
Thankfully, Birdie is more than enough girl for one family. She is frilly and pink and twirly and soft. She loves her babies, her violin, twirling, singing, and otherwise being the total stereotype of “little girl.”
She also has leadership skills (read: has no problem telling others what to do). And frankly, that helps. A lot. Otherwise, the poor child would be doomed to non-stop football games and Lego-building parties. As it is, she can convince younger brothers to play house, or sit in on a restaurant meal, or imagine that they’re puppies lost in the woods.
It’s a nice change of pace from the otherwise constant backdrop of superhero “ka-POW,” I tell you.
As I was leaving church the other day, a sweet young lady from another family watched me hand out grey and blue jackets.
“You have a lot of boys,” she said, smiling.
“Yeah, we kind of do,” I agreed.
“I’m going to start praying that your next one is a girl,” she told me.
I thanked her.
Then I ran after four boys who had just caught sight of slushy puddles … in their church shoes.