Dreaming of a son

All three times I was pregnant, it was I who wanted a son. I, who hoped and prayed the baby would not only be healthy, but MALE.


I was the one who dreamed of watching my son score the winning touchdown, tie or beat his father's fastest pin record in wrestling and I who wanted to feel his big strong arms around me as he sneaked up behind me as I stood at the stove cooking to say, "Hi Mom. What's for dinner?"

They always say a mother and son have a special bond . . . like fathers and daughters. I wanted to know that bond. But I was thinking the other day, is that really why I wanted a son? Or did I subconsciously have ulterior motives?

Now, don't get me wrong. I love my four daughters dearly. And I am proud and happy to say I have good relationships with all of them. But there are times they can really drive me up the wall.

Whenever I want the curling iron, it's in use. Same thing with the hair dryer. The razors are always dull and they are constantly helping themselves to my makeup.

I bought three sets of tweezers and watched as they dwindled to two, then one, and finally, "WHERE ARE MY TWEEZERS!?"

There is no such thing as "my" anything. You never know which room you'll find the nail polish remover in, and I can frequently be heard saying, in disbelief, "But I just bought that can of shaving cream."

If I can't find a favorite shirt, it's a sure bet it's in one of their rooms, most likely dirty and mixed in with the rest of their clutter.

My hair brush is never where I leave it, which is in the drawer with the other hair items. In other words, where it belongs. I always seem to be on a frantic search for something. (Cotton balls. Where are my cotton balls?)

A great smelling perfume disappears remarkably fast . . . that is if the entire bottle itself doesn't vanish.

And more and more I am hearing things like, "Mom, if you're not planning on wearing it tonight, may I borrow your pink camisole with the lacy straps?"

One day things were especially crazy and I thought to myself, with my head in my hands, "what could be worse than this?" A couple of nights later, I had my answer.

I had a dream. And in my dream I was so happy. I had a son! I was standing at the stove cooking. My son sneaked up behind me and put his arms around me. I was in heaven! And then he said to me, "Mom, if you're not planning on wearing it tonight, may I borrow your pink camisole with the lacy straps?"

Here goes nothing (literally).

I don't have a clue as to what I am doing. But I suppose others got their start the same way. Wish I had more time to play with this. But, alas, I must go to work. Something I will no doubt talk more about, later.