Upon hearing that our second child would be a boy, I walked out of the doctor’s of-
ce, crossed 8th Avenue, and stepped into a Mexican restaurant to drink something
with tequila in it. Then I drank another.
My wife would have joined in the drinking, but she was far enough along in the preg
nancy for a penis to show up on a sonogram. So, I drank, and she inhaled corn chipswith guacamole.
We knew that mommies and daddies can make both lile girls and lile boys,but we hadn’t seriously considered the possibility of having a so
n.We already h
ad a girl, Sophia, who was three years old. And she was perfect—dimples, curls, and a sweet lile voice that said sweet lile things.When my wife became pregnant again, neither of us said aloud that we were hav
ing a girl. We just gured that we would; by some genec predisposion, we made
girls. It was the house special.
As the father of a lile girl, I’d grown not to care forlile boys. They were loud, needy, and restless. On the sidewalks, they ran wild withno consideraon for other people, unmovable objects, or moving trac. In the park,they ung themselves from dangerous heights, or chased aer balls like dogs. Theypued out their chests and waived sharp scks, then cried to high heaven at the sight
of a scratch.
Socially, they were hopeless: no eye contact, no hellos, no listening, plenty of boogers. Bookstores have enre secons dedicated to tomes on raising boys.The multude of volumes and approaches speaks to the complexity of themaer; boys are just harder to raise.
It would be on me, more than anybody else,to raise him right.