Boy, oh Boy!

. . . My response to the tragedy of finding out I am having another boy.

Disclaimer: I would be remiss not to comment on the (true) tragedy in Aurora, CO.  However, since there has hardly been a lacking in rhetorical response to this horrific calamity, I will defer to two articles that have provided keen commentary both from a spiritual (click here) and physical perspective (click here).  (Warning:  While this will shock few of my readers, I do advocate-along with our Founding patriots- an armed citizenry.)

With regards to the Batman movie itself, I strongly endorse the viewership of it, if only because Christian Bale is cinematically featured for almost three hours. And to be honest, I would pay money to watch Christian Bale do almost anything for three hours.

In other blog worthy news, it has been medically determined **spoiler alert** (1) that I am pregnant and (2) with another boy. (Click here for the video announcement).

I wish I could boast in that cheery way that better moms do that I would have been delighted by the revelation of either gender. But, that would be a lie.  And I stink at lying and struggle miserably with even softening euphemisms. Truth be told, I was in denial that it might even be a boy. In my omniscience, I presumably qualified for gender affirmative action: God would not subject me to another male child since my current testosteroned-terror is just about killing me.  But, as it turns out, my gypsy fortune-divining future looks pretty bleak.  I was shocked. In fact, I asked the ultra sound tech and the doctor to double check. . . Acid on an open wound.

Now, before you begin that maternal clucking noise or perform that pious head shake of disapproval, permit me:  You are right- I am selfish and a tad ungrateful. It is a sacred privilege to have a baby, let alone a healthy one.  How dare I be disappointed with the XY chromo-combo! And yet, we all have our favorite ice-cream. Even cognizant that ice-cream is a 1st world luxury, we all suffer "ice-cream malaise" when we discover they've run out of our favorite flavor. Admittedly, we should just celebrate the marvel of ice-cream and the neuronic sensitivity of our taste-buds, gratified that ANY flavored frozen dairy was afforded to us. But, in that moment, you plead with the heavily-eye-lined adolesecent "scooper" to just check again in the back for more Rocky Road.

Checking again and again and again, there remained the glaring irreconcilable genitalia. Jason laughed quietly beside me. (If looks could kill, he would have died 9 times over).

Since I am already genuflecting in this blog confessional, I may as well concede to and clarify my personal bias against boys. No fear of a lesbianic feminist rant here just refer back to my previous Christian Bale remarks for comforting assurance. Rather, I feel ill-equipped to handle boys within a parental, domestic role and it's not the "slugs, snails and puppy dogs tails" that vex me.  However, it is the reality of Tonka trucks, daughter-in-laws, bodily function-fixation, excessive sweatiness, endless train tracks, the thrill of mud and the allure of porn, and the obsession with every sport that leaves me eyeing the Pinot Grigio with affection.

(And here comes the moralizing epiphany...)

But, as I watch my violently aggressive son unabashedly pick his nose, right before biting his sister, growling at my rebuke and later offering me a sloppy kiss,  I am reminded once again, that Kincaid IS indeed killing me . But maybe that is for the best. There is a lot of "me" that could stand to be destroyed- areas of my flesh that are stinkier than the gas Caid (laughingly) passes. My impatience. My perfectionism. My unforgiveness. My anger.  If God is using Kincaid to refine me and kill off the unloveliness in my heart, than just imagine the blessed damage two boys will do.  So, at this rate, I am only a few years away from canonization. 

Stay tuned.