dear boy moms

dear boy moms,

I get it. 

I. GET. IT. 

I'll be totally honest, I was team girl ALL THE WAY after having Ally Grace. She and I have always had a special bond, and I kept thinking how amazing it would be to have nothing but daughters. Because we would obviously spend our time shopping, getting our nails done, and talking about boys. (I'm not a regular mom, I'm a cool mom. Duh.)

(Also, I know. Clearly I was failing to remember the entire YEARS they would hate me during high school.) 

But a boy?? I sort of panicked a little, if I'm being real. Because boys are loud, dirty, and enjoy all things creepy and crawly. (To be fair, they're not all that different from my tomboy daughter. I was more ready than I thought, actually). 

I feared that I wouldn't be able to make the appropriate truck or motorcycle noises, and I most assuredly would not know the difference between an excavator and a grader. Outwardly, I began prepping to add a boy to our family, while inwardly panicking a little (A LOT), and hoping that the doctors were wrong. And that maybe "he" would actually come out with a vagina. 

But y'all. When Bo got here (ruining the Bachelor I was watching, and stranding me in the hospital during the Snow Jam of 2014), I was beyond smitten. BEYOND. (Well, after he started sleeping through the night; I don't honestly remember too much from the sleep-deprived weeks before that). And now, when he wants to play trucks, I am THE FIRST ONE ON THE FLOOR, making a fool of myself with my subpar truck noises. When he slips his pudgy little hand in mine, and tells me "mommy, I'm gonna marry you." it is all I can do to not turn into the psycho mom who is WAY too obsessed with her son, and never lets him get married or leave her. 

(Jk, I'm not even planning to TRY avoiding being that mom.)

He turned 4 on Saturday. FOUR. And I fear his days of mispronouncing words are numbered. He won't be saying "chicka flay" (chick-fil-a), "nug nets" (nuggets), or "funder" (thunder) much longer.  He probably won't be looking up at me and saying emphatically, "Mommy you're making me SERIOUS" when I tell him no. 

(Sometimes, I only say no, so I can "make him serious." Seriously CUTE.)

He's special, this little Bobo of mine. And he's four. And now I need Facebook to STOP REMINDING ME ABOUT THIS DAY FOUR YEARS AGO. RUDE. 

Imma also need someone to let me borrow their baby. Maybe until it's four.  Mkaythanks.

Until next time,