My husband and I are fairly committed to the man-on-man defense parenting strategy. Meaning: we aren’t so sold on the idea that we’ll have only two kids that we’re planning any immediate procedures, but we’re operating under the assumption that our family will be complete with our peanut and pumpkin.
The gender of this particular child did not play into this decision. Sure, it would be great to have a little girl to balance the scales, giggle over first dances with and dress in those adorable ruffled bloomers. But I also cherish the same-sex sibling relationship I have with my sister and think the bonds of brotherhood will be an extra special gift between peanut and pumpkin.
And being the mom of boys doesn’t seem that bad when we’re sitting at a Braves game together cheering on a home run, playing trucks or even finding joy in a simple mud puddle. Until…
This evening as the hubby was getting peanut ready for bed, peanut stated that when the sun comes up he can have a treat. The hubby said, um, no, when the sun comes up you can have breakfast. I told him if he wanted a treat when the sun came up, he could get a kiss from mommy – wasn’t that a good treat? He thought that was silly and then:
Peanut: “Mommy, do you want a treat?”
(Oh, what cute response is coming? A kiss? A squeeze? An “I love you?”)
Peanut proceeded to rip quite a sonorous poot.
Ah, my future life with boys. Non-stop potty humor and on-demand farting. I’d be horrified if I wasn’t busy laughing so hard.