Mary Widdicks essays

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There are no princesses in my house. No dresses. No My Little Ponies. The only pink in the house resides in my closet. The only doll lies naked and forgotten in the bottom of a toy box. Mine is a house of trucks and trains. A house of dinosaurs, bugs, monsters, and anything else that makes loud noises or foul smells. Mine is a house of belching and scratching. It is a house of play fighting and testosterone. Mine is a house of boys. Except for me. I am outmanned. Even the dogs are boys. I’m not sure about the fish, but they are rarely any help at all.

I am the very lucky mother of two beautiful, smart, unique, and spirited boys. They are my heart and soul. I wouldn’t trade them for anything. There’s just one thing missing and it would be the pink, sparkly bow on top of my already amazing family. You guessed it: a girl. I never thought I’d be one of those mothers who desperately wanted a daughter. I was never very girly growing up. I played sports. I got dirty. My best friends were boys. When I found out I was pregnant for the first time I hoped for a son. I imagined myself playing baseball and soccer in the back yard, building forts and sandcastles at the beach, and watching him grow and take care of his family. Actually, his sister.

Somewhere, buried deep in my subconscious, was the desire to have a daughter. Even when I thought I was wishing for a boy, I was still planning my future family dynamic around this tiny, elusive, ruffle-clad, pink-wearing creature. She was always there, in the background, waiting for me to realize how much I wanted her. It took me awhile, but I am finally ready to admit my deepest desire. I want a little girl. I want someone to teach about make up, dating, or not dating, clothes, shoes, the whole disgustingly sexist shebang. I can’t help it. I walk through the children’s clothing aisle at Target and my testosterone-laden womb cries out when it sees the tiny dresses and bows. I’ve turned into my worst nightmare.

Of course, it’s more than just a desire to dress my child up in sparkles and sequins, without him looking like Liberace. I want to impart my hard earned wisdom onto the next generation of women. I want to see myself shine through another human being. I want to see all the ways she will be different, and better, than me. I want to raise my new best friend. The woman who will come to me with all her questions, fears, triumphs, and joys for the rest of her life. Above all right now, I’d just like someone to roll my eyes with when the boys are belching the alphabet at the dinner table again.

I’m not sure whether we’ll have another baby. I mean, what if we have another boy? How many times do we spin that roulette wheel? I guess I wouldn’t mind being outmanned as long as I’m not alone. Even if we never get our little princess, one thing I do know for sure; the next dog we get is going to be a girl.

About the Author

Mary Widdicks

Mary Widdicks is a mother of two boys, two male dogs, and an ever-changing number of gender-indiscriminate fish. Her husband calls her Honey, the three year old calls her Mommy, the baby calls her Milk, the dogs call her their Indentured Servant, and she's pretty sure the fish have no idea who she is at all. She is definitely outmanned. Coincidentally, she is also the writer of the humorous parenting blog .

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