Gosh, my girls are sweet. I love watching them grow in empathy and boldness. They are always quick to help, me or anyone else, and have kind hearts that give me goosebumps to watch in action. I love the relationship I have with them, being able to see myself in them, down to the insecurities and self-doubts. Man, do I get them. 

But there’s just something about those boys.

I don’t know what it is. I’m not sure why my heart ties up in knots with every hug, every tickle, every kiss. I don’t know why I can’t hold him without kissing his chubby cheeks or squeezing him tightly against my chest. I don’t know why I can’t help but smile at him when he stumbles into our room each morning in all his bedhead glory.

There’s just something about those boys.

Is it the shocking tenderness I didn’t expect? How he will be jumping off the couch cushions screaming at a fever pitch one second, then tackling me in a full-body hug the next? Is it the way he shouts “MOMMY!” when he sees me at the end of his school day, then lays his head on my shoulder and starts patting my back like his hand is a wind-up toy? I don’t know.

I just know there’s something about those boys.

Maybe it’s because I know little boys grow into men. I know he won’t always crave my hugs and kisses or fight so fiercely for that coveted spot in my lap. I know with every second he’s losing his baby fat, his lisp, his innocence, his need for his mama. Sure, he’ll always need me, but he won’t always admit it so proudly, or so loudly.

There’s just something about those boys.

The bathtimes that require a scrunched-up border of bath towels along the edge of the tub.

The uninhibited nudity. 

The bedtimes whispers of, “Will you way wiv me for a wong, wong, wong time?”

The bruises and bites and scrapes that appear out of nowhere.

The wild love.

Even the incessant time-outs. 

At first I wondered if I could love this boy as much as his older sisters. I wondered if I had the patience for all the climbing and potty words and fart noises. Would I like that? Are fart noises my thing?

But now I know. Fart noises are my thing. Because he is my thing.

Because there’s just something about those boys.

There’s something in them that softens a grown woman and changes the steady rhythm of her heart. It no longer keeps the same shallow pace, but beats a little deeper, a little fuller, a little less steady and a little more haphazard. 

I will never know exactly what it is. I’ll never be able to pinpoint one thing that stole my affections from the very first chubby grasp of a finger.

I just know there’s something about those boys.

And I will spend my life thanking God for that something.

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