Yesterday was the second time since having children that I thought, just for a moment, maybe having boys would have been better.
The first time I had that thought was the first time I brought the Demigoddesses to a Twins game at the Metrodome. Demigoddess the Elder was maybe five years old, the Younger would have been around three. I spent most of the game in line at the restroom, first with one, then with the other, then again with the first one, and for the tiniest fraction of a second, I thought that if just one of them were a boy, I might at least have gotten to watch one uninterrupted inning.
In my family, it’s ALL females. The boy my cousin gave birth to last March represented my extended family’s first male child in over 50 years. Eleven straight girl babies, we had. I wouldn’t know what the hell to do with a boy if I had one. When my sister was pregnant, I secretly wished and wished for her to have a girl, and the Demigoddesses and I were thrilled when we found out we would be getting a little Madge.
But yesterday as I trotted back and forth between two adjoining department store dressing rooms, slinging an armload of bras of varying sizes and styles, that thought came to me again. Boys. Muuuuuuch easier.
In addition to having to explain what, exactly, a Wonderbra is, and also why anyone would want one, a few of the choicer phrases that I heard coming out of my mouth included:
“You’re too young for a black bra.”
“Just find some underpants that aren’t a thong. And no zippers on the front.”
“Purple lace? No. Let me rephrase that… that would be a HELL NO.”
“It’s the right size, it only looks small because it’s a push-up. Which, by the way, is totally inappropriate for the eighth grade."