I had six daughters before I was given a son and everyone tried to warn me.
“They are just different,” they’d say.
Yes, yes, and yes. They sure are.
Wee little dirty dust devils that make messes from sun up to sun down. Happiest when throwing punches or wrestling in the grass. Able to chew a peanut butter and jelly sandwich into a gun and turn baby carrots into cannons. There is no table they can’t jump from, wall they can’t climb, or bunk bed they can’t make into a pirate ship, pole vault, or secret fort.
And God do I love them.
The boys tire me out physically, but the girls are mentally exhausting.
The boys break and destroy everything in the house at least twice, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. When we got Courson I just prayed God would give him a brother that he wouldn’t be alone in a house full of six girls.
And the Lord was faithful to provide FIVE brothers to this future general. His little band of brothers.
Boys. Those messy, loud, wonderful beings that never fail to give me love and affection beyond what my heart can even hold.