Girl Mom

Having a son plunges you into a foreign landscape filled with trucks, trains, balls, and dirt. He forces you to notice construction sites, linger in sporting goods stores, and play hard in playgrounds long after others have called it a day.

You get used to stripping your little boy of muddy boots before he walks in the door, checking his pockets for rocks and treasures before throwing his pants in the washing machine, and contending with his man-size appetite. You collect more knowledge about dinosaurs, planets, and superheroes than you ever dreamed you would amass.

You have the privilege of receiving impossibly fierce hugs, achingly sweet head butts, and sticky peanut butter and jelly kisses... your little boy expressing his love for his mother in ways that little girls just don't.

Your house is littered with evidence of your boy: toy cars, wooden train tracks, teeny-tiny superhero weapons, extra-large grass-stained pants. As you shake sand out of his hair, scrape dirt out from underneath his fingernails, and dump him into the bathtub, it seems impossible to imagine a different parenting experience.

And then, one day, you realize that yes, you're a Boy Mom, but you're also somehow morphing into that species that you've observed from afar for years now: a Girl Mom.

Before Clara was born, and even well into her toddlerhood, I would watch, slack-jawed, as Girl Moms went about their daily routines. Their world was filled with puzzling objects like nightgowns, impossibly tiny underwear, high-heeled princess shoes, lip gloss, and actual kid-size combs and brushes that were used daily to secure hair accessories in childrens' hair. I would see these moms trip over baby dolls and miniature strollers, minuscule Cinderella slippers, and toy food. They had to keep track of clothing items that seemed bizarre and useless, and made getting dressed a squirmy, complicated affair. Tights. Bloomers. Headbands. Cardigans. I could never get over how pink it all was.

Nearly a year has gone by since I began rearing multiple girls. I should have realized months ago that I AM one of those girl moms now. But it took a Target shopping trip last week with just Clara and Molly in tow to show me that I'm waist-deep in those once-mysterious pink waters.

We lingered in the shoe department while Clara oohed and aahed over sequined flip-flops. We spent way more time than Joey would have allowed in the girls' toy aisle. We squealed over some princessy beach towels. And we capped it all off by trying on some cardigans from the toddler racks.

As we loaded our goodies onto the checkout counter, an older woman got behind me in line, and watched as Clara hopped up and down clutching a purple My Little Pony. She gave me a knowing look.

"Girls!" she said. "You must be having fun!"

A part of me felt traitorous for abandoning my Boy Mom past, but as I turned to the register, gently nudging my pig-tailed little girl forward, and hitching up my baby's pink trimmed socks, I couldn't keep the smile off my face.