I’m a girly-girl. That’s just who I am. When I was little, I always preferred wearing dresses to pants. I preferred playing with my baby dolls to playing in the dirt. I played with my Barbies until I was 14 and I was a Girl Scout until the day I graduated from high school.


Whenever I pictured myself with children there was always at least one girl in the bunch. Somebody to share my love of dolls with, somebody to tap dance with, somebody to lead in Brownies, Juniors, Cadettes and Seniors. My little girl was going to wear frilly dresses and bows in her hair. I was going to finally learn to French braid, and darn it, her hair was going to be long and beautiful so that I would be able to spend hours brushing and braiding.


I knew my first child was going to be a boy from the start. Before I even knew for sure I was pregnant I sensed that I was, and that I was carrying a boy. Sure enough, child number one, boy. No problem, I was planning on have at least three, possibly four children, I’ll get my girl.


My second pregnancy seemed promising. I had horrible morning, afternoon and evening sickness. Everybody assured me that meant I was having a girl; something about double the female hormones in my system. I wanted to believe them, but deep down I knew I was carrying another boy. Sure enough, at my 20 week sonogram it was confirmed, child number two, a boy.


After my second son was born I thought I was done having babies. Two left me over-whelmed and exhausted. When number two was about two and a half years old, we had a big yard sale and sold all the baby stuff. No less than a month later I began to get that “I want another baby” twinge. Whenever I saw a pregnant woman, I was secretly envious. I volunteered in my church nursery so that I would have the opportunity to hold babies. I finally broke down and told my husband, and he was surprisingly on board with the idea of having another baby. This was my chance to have my girl.


The minute I found out I was pregnant with number three, I knew it was a boy. I just knew it. I can’t explain it. The crazy part; I wasn’t the slightest bit disappointed. I was the mother of boys. I loved my boys and all their boyishness. I loved holding a Wooly caterpillar and letting them pet it. I loved catching toads in the back yard. I loved the way they got so tickled whenever somebody passed gas.


I am never going to be a Brownie leader, but I have spent hours helping design and paint Pinewood Derby cars for Cub Scouts. We don’t have a single Barbie in the house, but I get an odd sense of accomplishment whenever I figure out how to put a Transformer together. I have never had the chance to shop for tap shoes or tutus, but I have cleats in every size and soccer pads in every closet.


There are no frilly dresses in my future, and I don’t know that I will ever learn to do a French braid. I’m okay with that. My boys are the best thing that has ever happened to me. They have taught me how to be silly. I am learning the rules to soccer and lacrosse. I have also learned, no matter what you have, the first time a child climbs in your lap and says “I wub you mama,” you melt.


Girls smirls, I'll take my three boys over a bunch of silly frilly, doll playing, tap dancing, French braided, cookie selling girls, any day.