Trucks and Teacups: Raising Boys through the Power of Femininity
I asked a friend to record the moment when I found out the sex of my second-born child. I had done two blood tests through the mail, and after weeks of waiting, the fateful email with my results had finally arrived.
My second pregnancy had been so different from my first. I suffered through intense morning sickness, my hormones were off the charts, and my body felt decidedly different. I thought that these symptoms were proof that I finally had the daughter I had always wanted. I went through a slight mourning period with my first after I found out that the little girl I thought I was carrying was, in fact, a boy. So this time, I was determined to get my way. That dang email was going to tell me what I wanted to hear so I could start buying hair bows and dream about all the glass ceilings my baby girl would shatter.
My friend started recording as I pulled up the results. I excitedly proclaimed, “it’s a…” as I waited for that animated box to open and confirm my intuition about my newest wombmate.
“It’s a Boy!”
I felt my stomach drop. Once again, the future full of dresses and late-night mother-daughter bonding sessions had disappeared before my eyes. I knew what fate laid before me now: decisions about circumcisions and figuring out how to nurture and meet the needs of a child whose entire life experience I would never fully understand.
Having grown up with two sisters, my husband was ecstatic that our oldest would have a best friend for life. Our kids would have the childhood he longed for, filled with boyhood camaraderie and all the shenanigans that came with it. Meanwhile, I had sunk into another cloud of disappointment and soul-crushing guilt. I loved this baby with my entire being, but I could not help feeling disheartened by those test results. If one son was difficult to raise, how on earth was I going to manage two?
My sons are preschool and toddler-aged now, and I am so entrenched in that #boymomlife that the thought of having a girl fills me with equal parts longing and sheer terror. The past four years have been consumed by trucks and sports and desperately trying to find outlets for my sons’ seemingly bottomless wells of physical energy. Between breaking up fights and listening to constant imitations of monsters and laser blasters, there is little time for silly things like femininity and gentleness.
Or so I thought.
Perhaps it’s because I am getting older and, dare I say, laid back? But I realized that I do not have to subscribe to society’s warped views of boyhood.
Tayler Crabb, @taylercrabb.
Society is quick to write boys off as perpetually dirty little terrors incapable of appreciating delicate and quiet things. The culture teaches our sons that their God-given masculinity is a curse that must be broken. Little boys are made of snakes and snails and puppy dog tails, after all, so why bother trying to raise them to be anything more than that?
I had thought that having two boys meant that I was doomed to spend my motherhood devoid of the feminine and beautiful. I had assumed that having boys left no room for tea parties or Anne of Green Gables read-alouds. But what if I was wrong? What if having sons invited me even deeper into the mysteries of femininity and wonder?
What if we could instead instill a sense of beauty in our sons? What if their gender is not an invitation to either bow to or deny their identities as little men but instead see their masculinity as a gift that must be cultivated and celebrated?
This seemingly simple theory – that my sons can be raised to enjoy what society has long considered “girly” as a means of helping them become well-rounded men – has been life-giving. I can foster their vocations, whether they are called to religious life or marriage and fatherhood, by teaching them using my unique experiences gleaned from a lifetime of womanhood. Where there was once separation between my feminine self and my sons, there is now a sense of purpose and joy.
Joy that I can teach these two little boys how cooking for their loved ones and community is an act of charity and artistry. My love and talents for hosting is a gift I can pass along to my sons. They know the value of good food cooked with love and understand that some of the best bonding time is when everyone pitches in to clean up afterward.
Joy that I can share my love for classic works of literature written by strong women who knew the value of a true gentleman. One of my greatest mom-wins was when my oldest declared that his children’s edition of “Pride and Prejudice” was his favorite book. Plus, he can accurately explain that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife when asked, “Thomas, what is a truth universally acknowledged?”
Joy that I can give them an example of what it means to love Jesus amid everyday life. How a rosary prayed one decade at a time between running errands and preparing snacks is just as sanctifying as uninterrupted prayer time. Or apologizing for losing our tempers and tidying the house are necessary acts of service that teach us to love one another in word and deed.
I wish I could tell that young mama who was so scared of raising two sons that things would be okay. That we will never have this whole “boy mom” thing figured out, but at least we learned that we aren’t as ill-equipped to raise them as we had thought. Our feminine genius is not a barrier to understanding these little men, after all. In fact, our God-given femininity is our most incredible tool to nurture and form the kind of well-rounded men who will set the world ablaze.
Meet JuliaMarie Woolbright
JuliaMarie lives in the Western North Carolina mountains with her husband, Thomas, and their two sons. She is a convert to Catholicism and a lover of books, cooking, writing, art, and all things Tolkien. Encouraging women to live authentically and boldly is her passion, and she lives for deep, uncomfortable conversations about everything and anything.
She blogs at musingsofacatholicmama.com and shares snippets of her daily life on her Instagram, @musingsofacatholicmama.