Reflections on Love, Misconceptions, and Motherhood
There are a lot of ideas and assumptions about what being a “boy mom” means. The stereotype is familiar: boys are loud, dirty, wild — always wrestling or tracking mud through the house. That’s the shorthand people like to use.
Recently I read a piece called 10 Things Never to Say to a Mom Expecting Another Boy. I found myself nodding along. No, I’m not currently expecting, but I do have a son, and I’m tired of the pity that sometimes comes with that label — as if raising a boy is some kind of consolation prize.
What set me off, though, wasn’t the article itself but the comments underneath. One woman actually wrote: “I feel so bad when I see moms of boys. I’m so glad I only have girls. Boys are dirty, messy, obnoxious.”
I had to stop and reread it. People really say things like that — without a second thought.
Besides being a sweeping generalization about half the population, it ignores what should be obvious: kids are individuals. Gender doesn’t dictate everything about who they are. I’ve met plenty of messy, unruly girls and plenty of gentle, thoughtful boys.
But this isn’t just about boys versus girls. It’s about the way mothers are constantly pitted against one another:
- working moms vs. stay-at-home moms
- breastfeeders vs. bottle feeders
- co-sleepers vs. crib sleepers
- boy moms vs. girl moms
Why do we do this? Why can’t we just be mothers without turning every choice or circumstance into a competition?
At the end of the day, we all want the same thing: for our children to be loved and safe. Only you know what’s best for your child, just as I know what’s best for mine. That should be enough.
I’d be lying if I said I never pictured what it might be like to have a daughter — wedding dress shopping, or passing down my favorite childhood books. But then my son arrived, and none of that mattered anymore. He is mine, and he is everything.
And that’s the point. I would have felt the same way if I’d had a girl. It doesn’t matter. It never did. What matters is that this child is mine.
So don’t pity me. Don’t project your tired stereotypes onto my son. I don’t feel deprived. I feel lucky.
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