By Peyton Garland 
I always wanted a baby boy. Better yet, I wanted to be the quintessential boy mom—the one in a baseball cap rooting for her little athlete, the one with a chignon updo and mother-of-the-groom corsage being danced around the ballroom floor by the young, dashing new husband. I knew this long before I was ready to start my own family, long before I was even married. I had nannied for over five years while earning my college degrees, and, having cared for boys and girls, I can’t deny how my favoritism leaned toward the boys.
Boys were less dramatic and much easier to understand. Words were fewer, but communication was far clearer. There were never meltdowns about an outfit that didn’t look just right or fingernail polish that chipped. No one lost their senses over silly gossip that ruled the female world. Sure, the boys tended to hit their heads more—and were quite certain they didn’t need to wash their hands, ever—but they were black and white. And they were funny. Oh, were they funny!
The boys were mischievous but not quite as manipulative, stubborn but not nearly as sassy. They were just muddied-up, tractor-loving, silly boys. Bumps, cuts, and bruises were their well-fitted companions, but their rough-and-tough skin was equally matched by tender hearts that picked flowers for you and wanted to hold your hand. They loved Superman capes and Spider-Man’s web shooter, but at the end of the day, they were your heroes, reminding you how simple prayers and getting your hands in the dirt can heal life’s wounds.
Before my 10-week gender test, I knew God had granted my wish to have a little boy. Day one, I was referring to the embryo in my belly as “he.” It was a certainty, a confidence, I guess you only get from heaven.
And what an angel my boy is. My John Harlon is every bit a boy as I had dreamed. He and I spend most of our days playing in mud puddles, collecting sticks and rocks, chasing the chickens, and throwing whatever ball is nearest.
Don’t get me wrong—he’s a near-2-year-old tornado who can push my limits, but he’s so fun. He’s one of my best adventures.
But one bit of this mama heart that breaks at having a boy is realizing he will never know how much I sacrificed, how much I will always sacrifice, for him. He will never, ever be a mama, and I fidget as I reckon with the reality that he will never know motherhood’s trenches, and how hard I fought to plant flowers there for him.
He will never understand morning sickness, and how I was sick the entire nine months I carried him. He won’t understand the pain of labor, postpartum recovery, and nursing. He won’t understand what it means to sacrifice body and mind to contact naps and sleepless nights and the beautiful but chaotic responsibility of coordinating birthday parties, scheduling annual doctor’s check-ups, and planning play dates.
He won’t relate to the responsibility of being the primary nurturer, the mama.
No matter what I sacrifice for him, he will never be a daughter who will eventually walk in my shoes and finally “get it.”
And today, I accept that’s okay.
Acceptance doesn’t mean it feels good; it doesn’t mean I don’t wish he could one day understand exactly how often my body bends and breaks for him, how often my mind centers on nothing but his spiritual and physical well-being, how I don’t know how to function anymore outside giving myself up for him each second of each day.
I remind myself that’s what love is. It’s a daily sacrifice that doesn’t need confetti or congratulations. It doesn’t want fanfare or the easy way out. It doesn’t need anyone’s relatability to hold weight. It doesn’t lose meaning when it’s done in the secret, in the quiet, behind the scenes.
Love simply wants to give, needs to give. The simple act of pouring out is what’s most fulfilling for a mama, whether to a boy or a girl.
What an honor to sacrifice for and snuggle with and surrender my wants for my muddy, fearless little boy. What an honor to love him in a way he will never fully understand.
by Heather Newmyer 
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