I never pictured myself as the mother of a boy.

I come from a house of girls.  Had lots of girlfriends growing up.  Did Girl Scouts.  Participated in all-girl sports.  Babysat for families with little girls.

My first experience with boy children came during my stint as a summer camp counselor.  Assigned to the five-year-olds, I ran through my roster, and of the 12 kids, realizing more than half were boys.

Five-year-olds are, well, busy by nature.  Hardly a one could “sit still and listen.”  And really, the girls were just as active as the boys.  But there was this subtle difference in temperament between the five-year-old boys and the five-year-old girls.

The little girls asked me if I was married, if I had kids.  The five-year-old boys screamed “MISS SARAH WATCH ME” as they launched themselves off the edge of the playground equipment and onto the other five-year-old boys watching below.

After college I worked at a teen center for middle school boys and girls.  Really, tweens are tweens.  But again, I noticed these funny differences between the tween girls and the tween boys.  The tween girls quizzing me about my love life and the tween boys sneaking into the boys bathroom to flush billiard balls down the toilet.  Note: when tween boys say something to the effect of “we’re going on a mission” and file into the boys bathroom, send in a chaperone.

I loved working with both groups, both the boys and the girls.  In my opinion, they were both equally challenging, just in their own ways.

But since having a boy in my close family unit wasn’t part of what I knew, I had trouble envisioning myself as a mom of a boy.  Sure, I’d had some experience with boys during my camp and teen center days and with my friend’s kids.  But raising my own boy?  What did I know about that?

When I texted my girlfriend (who has two boys) after the 20 week sonogram with the message “BOY!” I followed up with asking for words of wisdom.

She said watch out when you change his diaper so he doesn’t pee all over you.

Hmm…

There has to be more, right?  More I need to know other than head’s up during the diaper change?  Like some secret boy-raising knowledge?

But, really, what did I know about raising a little girl, either?  I have a mom and a sister and lots of girlfriends, and clearly, I’m a lady, but that doesn’t mean I know everything about everything about being a woman.  Every one of Kate’s little girlfriends are different with their own quirks and personalities and temperaments.

Clearly, girls and boys aren’t the same.  But as I navigate the parenting waters with Kate, I’m more and more convinced that parenting each child isn’t so much about their sex but more about who they are.  And that’s why parenting is so hard.  There’s no secret sauce to raising anyone.

But I will take that advice about projectile boy pee.

Good friends of ours got married over the weekend.  Back in the fall they asked Dan to be the Best Man and Kate to be the flower girl.

I knew Dan would make a great Best Man.  But I wasn’t sure how our two-year-old would do as flower girl.

I found that dress for her at Target back around Easter and tried to hide it from her since playing dress up is her favorite activity and she wants to change her clothes 18 times a day.  We talked about how her “wedding dress” was special, and she couldn’t wear it until the wedding day.

As the big day approached, Dan and I talked up wearing her wedding dress and walking down the aisle.  She seemed interested.  But when working with a two-year-old, anything can happen.

On the day of the wedding, I was sweating bullets.  When we arrived at the venue, she let my mom and I put flowers in her hair and seemed excited to walk down the aisle.  Then we tried to get her to take pictures with the bride.  And she wasn’t having it.

This is where I panicked on the inside but tried to look calm on the outside.

Fortunately the photographer got the shots she could and didn’t pressure Kate to do any more than she was willing.

And then it was time to line up.

The couple had a large bridal party, and Kate was going last, right after Dan and in front of the bride.  So while the groomsman and bridesmaids processed down the aisle I worked hard to sell the whole “walk down the aisle” idea.  I pulled out all the stops.  A princess crown, a magic wand, flowers, etc…

I sold her on holding a small bouquet and as soon as she saw Dan, she happily bounced down the aisle all by herself while I held my breathe and tried to look as inconspicuous (as inconspicuous as one can look at 8 months pregnant) as I sidled down the edge of the aisle behind her.

And all that worry was for nothing because she walked right down the aisle behind Dan and didn’t even seem to notice the photographers and 200+ people oohing and awing over her.

This kid held up like a champ, keeping still through the ceremony (She did keep asking me “What her Daddy doing?” and “Did I see all those princesses?”), sitting nicely in her own chair through dinner, and hitting up the dance floor until she collapsed around 10 p.m.

Now Kate is crazy about weddings.  Yesterday in the car she told me: “Mama, I’m getting married.  But I need a boyfriend first!”

Oh, my.

Dan, Kate, and I are excited to announce Baby Boy Bagley will join us in June.

People talk about the Terrible Twos like the minute your kid turns two, some evil villian child replaces your sweet baby with a tantruming tazmanian devil.

But then other people say, oh, no, you think two is bad?  Just wait until three!  Like I’m actually excited about Kate turning three and the prospect that she could be even more tantruming than at two.

I gave up reading all that stuff about ages and stages when Kate was a newborn.  All that talk about this and that and time outs and discipline and the 1-2-3 magic of it all seemed more like ways to regulate me than my daughter.

So Dan and I employ a simple, tried and true method around these parts called Parenting With A Sense of Humor.

Kate at almost two-and-a-half can be a total screaming, tantruming, not listening or listening to reason, failing 35 pounds of Goldfish cracker infused dynamite.  And she can be equally loving and precious and catch me off guard when she wraps her still tiny arms around my neck in a strangle hold and spits Teddy Graham debris in my face and says “I luv you, MAMA!”

But since she can still fill Dan and I with parental rage, the other day I got to thinking about this age, this Terrible Twos (or just you wait until Threes) and realized two-year olds have it good.  Here’s why:

+When you’re two, you get to act like a complete bipolar maniac.  And no one thinks it’s strange or odd or wants to defriend you.  It’s all cool because you’re two.  And that’s how two-year-olds act.  If I acted that way, I think Dan would have me committed.  But at two, you can feel free (and in fact you should) to flail about in the front yard, half naked, chocking on raisins and stomping your feet because your mother asked you to put your shoes on.  A complete freak out is just how you roll.

+You can eat whatever and how much ever you want.  I don’t fight with Kate about food.  I’ve got way more important things to fight with her about (hold my hand in the parking lot SO HELP ME JESUS!), and I like to end the day with at least a modicum of self respect.  So I don’t fight about food.  You want to eat Goldfish crackers for breakfast, lunch, and dinner?  Works for me!  You no longer want broccoli?  See if I care!  I know you, you’ll come back around.  Until then, may you feast on crackers.

+You can…and can’t really understand consquences.  Dan and I debate this all the time through our secret eye-contact language.  Should we call you out?  Would you understand a consquence for not listening?  Do we think you get cause and effect?  Can you truly understand time out?  Two-year-olds are masters at acting mature when they want something and immature when things don’t work out how they expected.  And then parents are left thinking, “should he/she know better?  He/she is only two…  That’s how they get you.

+Life’s unfair and you’re totally mad about it.  Sometimes I wish (okay, like all the time I wish), I could throw myself on our kitchen floor and scream and flail until I get what I want.  But as a grown adult I have to suck it up and accept that life’s unfair.  I’m jaded like that.  But not two-year-olds!  They get all hot and bothered when life isn’t fair!  It should be fair!  And by fair, I mean, it should always go my way!  I love that about them.  Not because they should get what they want.  But because they have the audacity to wholeheartedly and unabashedly scream for what they want.  Sometimes when I think about doing something but then think well life’s not fair so this won’t work for me, I think, what would Kate do?  She punch whatever is in her way in the face (which, most times, is me).  While it’s important to learn that life isn’t always fair, I admire the two-year-old sense of purpose when it comes to getting what they want.

In conclusion, it must be good to be two.  As we age we learn to reign ourselves in to be useful, kind members of society.  But at two, you don’t really get how other people have feelings and the world isn’t yours and yours alone.  So, right now, I’m happy to let Kate be Kate, in all her narcissistic glory, in this two-year-old stage.  To answer every question with “Kate” or “that’s Kate’s.”  I love how she’s cultivating this strong sense of self.

The other day she finally was able to pedal this bike.  I got so excited I clapped my hands and jumped up and down.  And you know what that kid said to me?  She said something her dad and I say to her everyday.

She turned that sweet face to me and said: “I’m so proud of you, mama!”

I think we’ll keep her.  At least until four.

Wasn’t it just yesterday that I was crying at the pediatricians office and afraid to give her a bath?

One of my most poignant memories as a child was my family’s Disney Cruise trip when I was in 5th grade.

It was a disaster at the start.

My sister woke up sick that morning at o’dark thirty, we took a painful plane ride from Illinois to Florida, met up with my aunt and uncle, discovered my uncle lost the travelers checks (no, I have no idea why one would need travelers checks), separated from my aunt, uncle, and cousins, took a painful road trip to the boat dock, boarded the ship and took my sister to the boat’s infirmary only to discover my aunt and uncle and cousins were already the ship’s first patient due to a dining room door crushing my cousin’s fingers.  My sister ended up with a double ear infection, my counsin with a hand x-ray.  And we hadn’t even left the dock.

Other trauma drama happened that trip, including me, breaking myself, my sister, and my cousins out of the ship’s childcare and escorting us to our room, leaving my parents to wonder what the heck happened to us only to find us all in our room, jumping on the beds, scarfing chocolate ship cookies, and watching the Disney Channel.

After that, I was understandably trepidatious of family vacations.

Someone is always throwing up, tantruming, getting lost, crying, or – mostly – all of the above.

And after our trip to the beach last year, I was real nervous about getting in the car again with Kate.

So I stocked up on Pringles, fired up the borrowed DVD player with The Fresh Beat Band, and braced myself.

The ride down was tough – over six hours in the car.  And when I suggested to Kate that she might want to rest and close her eyes, she said: NO!  KATE’S EYES OPEN!

There was no nap.

But we made it okay.  And since my parent’s accompanied us this year, I figured it had to be an improvement over last year.

And then it proceeded to rain almost the entire week.

When managed to hit up the beach in between the rain, but it was a gloomy week in general.  Coupled with my family-vacation-anxiety, I was ready to head home.

Family vacations with tiny children are not easy.  Kate didn’t sleep well since she wasn’t in her own bed, we didn’t have our usual supply of toys and entertainment devices, and she received more than usual attention from our friends (who rented the house across the street) and our family.

It was fun to watch her rake her hands through the sand and jump in the waves with Dan.  But it was also exhausting to chase her up and down the beach, wipe sand off her face, and peel her out of her wet, sandy clothes and deal with the aftermath of too much fun and not enough sleep.

I say all this because I think it’s easy to think that the pictures I post here show us having the perfect family vacation.  And we did have a good time.  But I also want to let you know that behind the pictures, it’s hard to be a parent of a small child away from home.  When I saw pictures of people’s vacations over the summer, I thought, why don’t we look like that?  Why isn’t anyone crying?

But I think that’s just the way it is with family vacations.  Someone’s probably going to cry, throw a fit, and maybe throw up.  But that’s the stuff family memories are made of.  The good tossed in with some bad and ugly.  And it always makes for a good story.

Dan and I fearfully led our toddler where many tired and strung out parents have led their toddlers before.

We went to the beach.

Again.

I know.  Rememeber last year?

So it was sort of like that.  And sort of better.  But either way, there was enough sand in Kate’s swim diaper to construct an entire castle.

Here’s a preview shot of Kate’s disgust of wet sand on her feet.  More to come.