Oh, Boy...

Every man wants a son.

Well, most.

In my husband's culture, sons are a big deal because their society is patriarchal. For example, my married surname is actually my husband's first name. His last name is his father's first name. Basically, sons are how the family tree gets its branches. No one has the same last name from one generation to the next, but because girls lose their name and carry on another family's lineage after marriage, part of the father's family bloodline essentially dies with a girl's birth.

Dreary.

A clever joke I didn't realize I was on the receiving end of in our Indian circle?

"Better hope for a boy."

I used to kind of shrug it off. Sure, men love their sons. That male bonding is serious business. Guys need sons for sports and fishing, for continuing the family business if there is one.

My husband didn't seem too fazed when our initial ultrasound suggested a girl. In fact, he was pretty thrilled.

I was the one who was bummed.

I already had a girl. I had done the bows and tutus, the princess-themed bedroom. My baby girl was 9 years old at the time and we had weathered all the early girl stuff. We were wading through tween'dom and it was going well.

I didn't want another girl yet.

I wanted my boy.

I never told hubby such. After all, we were both thrilled to be having a baby period, so the gender couldn't be that huge a deal. He was happy about his girl, and I was happy about expanding our little family.

As tables are wont to do, they did turn.

...it was me who gave the victorious huzzah when our tech confirmed our boy. The turtle had a tail.

This is when the admiration and thinly-veiled "whatevers" began.

By most accounts I'm fairly--or very, very, depending on who you ask--spoiled. (I prefer "well-loved.") My hubby is more outwardly affectionate than the other men in our circle. According to the wives, my life is a lot easier--I don't work long hours (Except by choice), I drive my own vehicle, and I'm spared the familial politics.

We are the only couple to have a son as our firstborn.

I'm no dummy. I'm aware. I'm woke.

This was the first time we'd been subjected to a stereotype from within our circle, though. Not that I ever counted them exempt--I know better. Even those who love you best will fall prey to antiquated assumption when they don't have facts to steady them. It's life.

I was a little put off by it though. Not because of the momentary spotlight, but because it was so common. Like, as soon as we announced the pregnancy, there were two groups of people: those mentally counting to nine to "ensure" conception matched up with our wedding date AND those waiting with bated breath to see if our little bean was a boy or a girl.

Fast forward to now. Two years later,  I take great pains to make sure our son doesn't bear generational weight on his little shoulders.

He isn't great because of his birth order. (He is actually second-born anyway.) He isn't great because we produced a son first. He isn't great because of patriarchal dogma.

He's great because he's a great son, brother, and friend. He's great because at age two, he speaks two languages with ease. He's great because he is absorbing and retaining tasks and information at a rate many kids twice his age don't match.

He's great because he is just what our little world needed.

When we look at his buttered-coconut skin or gaze into those grey eyes, we don't see patriarchal expectations or familial obligations. We don't see his little shoulders as a place to rest the burdens of familial continuation.

We simply see our son.