The One That Broke The Mold

My Dad is one of two children, he has an older sister. My mother was the oldest of seven, with five brothers and one sister.

Mom's sister has one child. Girl. Mom's oldest brother no children. Next brother FOUR Girls. Next brother THREE Girls. Next brother THREE Girls. And baby brother THREE Girls.

So my Dad's sister had one child. Girl. Then my Dad had his first child. Girl. Then I came along *takes bow*. Girl. Then the third child was born. Girl. Later when my Dad remarried and adopted my step-sibling. Girl.

Years later we started the next generation. My sister Val had her first baby. Girl. My cousin Marsha had her first child too. Girl. Val had another baby. Girl. Marsha had another baby. Girl. I get in the mix and I have my first child. Girl. I have child number two. Girl. Val has child number three. Girl.

So just in case you lost count, let me recap that for you:

Mom's side of the family, my generation - 16 Girls. Next generation - FIVE Girls (so far).

Dad's side of the family, my generations - 5 Girls. Next generation - SEVEN Girls (so far).

That's a whole-lotta pink!!!!!!

And then . . . one quiet Sunday afternoon in 1991, on the 8th day of the month after hours of labor and pain and pushing ---- a nurse exclaimed to me, "IT'S A BOY! MOM, YOU HAVE A BOY!" And thus, Zachary Earl Newsome was born into our family and breaking the mold, the Dodges finally have a boy of their very own. A BOY!

So you're thinking I was ever so happy to have a boy, huh? Not really. You see, I didn't believe them. They rushed my baby over to the table to clean him up and do whatever it is they do and all I keep thinking is, "Dodge girls don't know how to have boys. It has to be a girl. They must have made a mistake."

It wasn't long before they brought my tiny new born babe to me --er, I mean the new born babe was 9 pounds 1 ounce so what I mean is --it wasn't long before they brought my sort-of tiny new born babe over to me, wrapped ever so snugly in a new born baby blankie and they laid that babe on my chest and said, "Mom, would you like to nurse him?" HIM? Why do they keep calling my baby a boy? Don't they mean HER? You see, probably mostly delirious from you know --that whole giving birth thing and the fact that I had already convinced myself Dodge girls couldn't have boys, I was absolutely convinced they, you know -- trained medical professionals, made a mistake and I actually had a girl. So instead of gazing at my new born baby and trying to nurse the hungry little thing, I tore the blanket off of him and low and behold -- boy parts! Boy parts?

Now what do I do?

That was my first thought, as if every moment of parenting I had ever done was now all null and void because I had a boy.

I snuggled my baby boy close to me and I assured him I'd figure it out.

My first lesson --diaper changing and no, I never did get any misguided squirts but I did quickly learn there was a lot more to cleaning up a boy baby than a girl baby. And I soon learned too that boy babies were much louder than girl babies and boys liked to climb and jump and "fly". And I learned how to buy a cup for football and I learned that playing in mud wasn't such a bad thing and riding your bike in the rain was okay too. I learned that old towels make great super hero capes and green plastic army men hurt when you step on them barefooted. I learned that the highlight of the week can be when the trash truck comes-- so when we'd hear it we had to run outside to watch it. I learned that Legos were endless hours of entertainment and not so much what you could build but what you could destroy. I learned that Batman was cooler than Superman and what a baseball T was. When my boy "discovered himself" and thought he had swallowed some marbles, I learned how to explain "boy parts" to him. I learned that snuggling a baby boy was just as warm and wonderful as snuggling a baby girl. I learned that buckets made great Army Man helmets. I learned how to use Cheerios as "targets" for you know, aiming practice in the toilet, not around the toilet. I learned how to shop for men clothes and explain to my boy how to ask a girl on a date. I learned how to feed a ferocious growing-boy appetite. I learned not to have a heart attack each time I'd come home and found my boy roaming around on our roof top. I learned to breath amidst the clouds of Axe body spray emanating from the bathroom . . . . but what I mostly learned is that a boy has his way of wrapping himself around a mother's heart. I love and adore my girly-girls and nothing compares to our "Beauty Shop Nights" but this boy, my one and only son --is my Prince.

Eighteen years later I'm still learning how to mother a boy, a boy that has turned into a man, ever so charming he is.

Happy 18th Birthday, Son!