In case you’re unfamiliar with the term ‘SMOG’ (I have no idea what half these things mean – what the hell is FML!?), it refers to Smug Mum Of Girls. It wasn’t until my lovely friend mentioned it during lunch very recently that I even heard of it, but suddenly a few alarm bells were ringing and I realised very quickly that crap, I was once an accidental SMOG!
Now let me clarify a few things before I proceed. I have never disliked boys. I find them mostly hilarious. Nor, before Raf’s arrival, did I ever really indulge in Coco’s girly side (despite her Grandmother’s endless insistence!). Her best mate is a boy and her tastes have always fallen more towards ‘tom boy’ territory than the proper girly girl stuff like ribbons in hair and pretty dresses. In fact, my friend once even asked if Coco owned any dresses? Err YES! But I digress. Despite all of this, I think you’ll agree there is a general consensus amongst most parents that boys on the whole are just a bit more ‘mad for it,’ (although I know a few crazy girls too) and I guess this is where I am guilty of being a bit SMOG-y.
You see, this was less to do with the ‘mad for it’ mini-men and more to do with me and my stress levels, which on a typical day are so high they’re sky rocketing through orbit ready to discover a new alien life form. When I arrived at the local singing class late because the baby had a shit explosion up to her shoulders, and I have just noticed breast milk leaking through my already stained t-shirt, I wasn’t normally in the best mood to deal with little Jimmy pretending to be an aeroplane around the church hall, making engine noises and taking down other unsuspecting ‘aircrafts’ left, right and centre. Or for the little boy in the coffee shop play area, hurling plastic toys at other kids heads whilst I’m trying to peacefully persuade my little girl to eat some fudgin’ finger food so I can get my much-needed flat white fix.
I remember when pregnant the second time round visiting my dear friend and her “spirited” son (who I love very much), and her frankly saying to me, “how will you cope if you have a boy?”
Well Karma is indeed a bitch. Welcome Wreck-it-Raf. To be fair, when my friend asked me that question I was already pretty certain of my second child’s gender. No, I didn’t have a gender scan, but the horrendous morning sickness and mass of hives I had developed throughout my pregnancy gave it away. It had to be a boy.
Now it’s my little boy, snotty nosed, hurtling across the church hall at break-neck speed towards other innocent children. My little charmer shouting “CAKE” at the top of his lungs as soon as we enter a crowded cafe. My little pudding who is pounding across the park in the opposite direction of where we need to be going, causing me to scream “RAFFY, COME BACK!” a thousand times in a frenzied and deranged fashion before forcing me to peg it after him, sweaty and out of breathe in front of all the other parents.
But with all the madness that comes with being Raffy’s mum, there are a million good things too. Despite the slight violent streak (mainly reserved for his sister), he is filled with love and affection for his family and is always willing to flash strangers, in particular the ladies, a warm toothy grin. He is clever, I am convinced, beyond his 16 months (of course, aren’t all our kids geniuses!?) and those big brown eyes are enough to melt any mother’s heart (just look at him!). But most of all he makes us all laugh out loud over and over every single day.
My little girl is beyond gorgeous in every way (how young is too young for a mother and daughter spa break!?), but life will never be boring with my boisterous boy around and for that I am incredibly thankful. In short, I’ve won the jackpot.