Some of you have already heard this rant, and you may feel free to skip this post.

Allow me, if you will, to clarify. I am having a little boy. I am thrilled about having a little boy. I really am. I think – no, I know it’s going to be awesome.

But, I, who could have won a trophy for putting make-up on a Barbie head as a child; I, who have never played (or enjoyed) a sport in my entire life; I, who loathe heat, bugs, dirt, and all other things related to being outside; I, who instinctively roll my eyes at potty jokes because they are not even funny enough for me to fake a laugh; I, who have not left the house without mascara in 20 years (I wish I were exaggerating); I, who insist on good manners at all times and in all situations – I am having a little boy.

I’m the woman who has never understood why the Y chromosome makes a person have to reach up and touch the door frame EVERY time he walks into a room. I don’t get the affinity for things that smell bad. I may never understand why male people have to mess with stuff. (Yes, it’s loose/broken/off-center. LEAVE IT ALONE!)

I’m ecstatic, but don’t you feel just a little sorry for the boy? (Not Dan, The Boy. The boy I’m currently incubating.)

My friend, Misty, once joked that my future children would come to me, whining, “Why do I have to wear these stupid bows in my hair?!” And I would respond, “Son, it’s because your brother stopped letting me dress him.”

I probably won’t be quite that bad, but keep this kid in your thoughts. He has a very girly mom, and a big sister who likes her baby dolls and her tea set, and who brings Mommy bows to put in her hair. I’m picturing her trying to dress him like one of her baby dolls.

This is just another reason I’m so thankful for my incredible husband, who is also an incredible dad. If he can be the world’s best daddy for a girly-girl, I can figure out this whole little boy thing, right?

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