I feel like I should be upfront here and confess that this isn’t Simon – it’s Faith, his wife. Simon has a lot going on at work right now, and so he asked me if I’d like to share my perspective. I said yes, provided he lets me lie in at least three mornings this week. (I’m pretty sure I got the better end of this deal.)
I grew up as the middle sister of three, and I always dreamed of what it’d be like to have a brother. My high school boyfriend was the oldest of four boys, and I loved how noisy and chaotic his house was, and – I’ll admit it – how much he and his brothers doted on their mum, the lone girl.
Simon grew up with only a brother, too, and when I started spending time at their parents’ house when we first began dating, I felt just a little bit like a spy, checking out how the other side operated.
All of these things – the longing for a brother, the infatuation with boy-filled houses – made me long for my own collection of tiny men, so when we found out we were having one boy, and then another, I was thrilled. It felt like the fulfilment of a dream.
I’ll admit, there are times when I wonder if having girls might be different, maybe even a little safer than this. And when I say safer, I mean that I would be less covered in bruises, less likely to have my hair pulled, my head butted, my face scratched. My sweet boys love me, definitely, but they are little balls of pain, and I don’t remember growing up in a house full of girls being quite this physical.
Simon does a good job with our boys. They are constantly climbing all over me and trying to have light-sabre fights with me, their dad repeatedly reminds them that “Mommy is delicate, Mommy is like a flower
