I have not made it a secret to anyone that I had always wanted a little girl. Someone I could dress up in pretty clothes and have tea parties with. Someone who would be just as frustrated with toilet seats left up and hockey sticks left about.
When I was trying to get, and subsequently stay, pregnant with our third child I often dreamed of what she would look like. I imagined a tiny little thing with big blue eyes and blonde curls like me. I though having another girl in the house would soften things up a bit. When the fifth pregnancy looked like it was going to stick I was looking forward to the 20 week ultrasound so I could get a glimpse of who I was carrying. When the technician told us we were having another boy I will admit for a brief moment I was a bit disappointed. Visions of ballet shoes and frilly frocks were replaced by soccer cleats and grass stained jeans. I realized just how stupid I was being and I should be grateful for a healthy pregnancy and eventually a healthy baby boy.
Sgt always seems to be away when a crisis arises so I have had to rely on myself a lot. One time my dishwasher went on strike halfway through its cycle and spewed water all over the kitchen floor. Because I realized how much I loathe washing dishes by hand I grabbed some tools, took it apart and fixed the problem. I was also too cheap to call in a repairman. This tour he left during our lambing season. I rely on the older boys, Will and Charlie, to lend a hand with the docking, and castration of the lambs. The latter being a bit difficult for them to watch but they do so because they know how much I need them when their dad is gone.
This week I was clearing out the garage and asked bribed the boys to help out. While cleaning out the cupboard where we keep the painting supplies we came across this beast.
I handled myself with dignity and grace jumped and ran inside the house screaming like, well like a girl, while the boys pissed themselves laughing. Later that night I thanked my brave boys for saving me from the dead vermin and I knew at that moment why I was chosen to be the mother of sons and not daughters. A daughter would have screamed and ran with me leaving the rat corpse in the garage until Sgt came home in July.
Henry is just like his brothers. Rough and tumble. He swings a hockey stick with uncanny accuracey, digs in the dirt and pulls out worms for me to see. He brings me pebbles and sticks that he has found so I can carry them home for him. He loves being in the barn helping with the evening chores. I can only hope that one day he will be able to save his mom from a dead rat.