On Prosaic Dreams of Girly Motherhood

For some reason I always pictured my motherhood being one of pink and frills and homemade bows and painted toe nails and pretty jewelry and baby dolls. I was always the girly-girl; blonde, pink, makeup, heels, and a latte. That was me. No duh, my children would be daughters! 

Today I'm putting batteries in trains, and setting up tracks, and connecting cars, and finding Woody and Buzz, and having intellectual discussions about "B'Queen" and Mater. Yesterday I made a little boy's tie and re-learned the masterful art of tying a full Windsor knot. Last week I altered a 3-piece pin-striped suit. I read books out loud about bugs and watch deer hunting videos. I shoot orange plastic pistols and fly toy airplanes around the living room. I sing along with adapted songs like "Winnie the 'Poop'" and "L-M-N-O-Peepee" and join in the giggles when the baby farts. My laundry contains a lot of jeans, and Buzz underwear, and mud. And I am so okay with that.

I didn't picture myself as a mom of boys. But I am. And now that I think of it, my aforementioned dreams of motherhood were rather boring and prosaic.