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>Estrogen Deprived

March 8, 2011

>Last night at the dinner table – during one of those rare moments where we were all actually sitting in our seats, and no one was under the table, or kicking someone else, or demanding more milk, more ketchup, another napkin, or a spoon, instead of a fork – Scrappy looked across at me and announced:

“Mommy! I am a boy.”

He pointed at his brother. “He is a boy!”

And at Gabe, who was calmly eating his pasta, “And, Daddy, HE is a boy!”

He looked at me, smugly, and then pointed.

“You, Mommy, YOU are a GIRL!”

Clearly, his pronouncement was not in my favor.

I am so aware of that fact, my dear. So very aware.

I am aware of that when I fold laundry, I fold (ok, not fold, but wad up in a pile) three different sizes of Jockey shorts. Small, Medium, Large. We’re like our very own Hanes commercial on my couch.

I am so very aware when I set foot in their bathroom. Seat up, floor damp. Yuck and double yuck.

I am so very aware when I am sitting on the floor (probably folding laundry, or wadding up underwear) minding my own business and I am tackled by a 36 lb missile. For no reason whatsoever.

I am aware that I am outnumbered here. So very, very aware.

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