I'm Not Raising Mini-Me's
Sometimes, I swear I'd give anything for a little Mini-Me.
A daughter to match outfits with and take on spur-of-the-moment coffee dates. A tender-hearted soul with a small side-helping of sass.
Someone to pass down the knowledge and secrets I learned from my mother, who learned them from her mother, and on and on through all the ages of women who came before us.
But I didn't get a little Mini-Me.
Instead, I received two little Mini-He's.
Two boys who look at the man they call dad with wide eyes and piercing admiration. Clothed in cowboy boots, blue jeans and ball caps, they cling to him from the moment their feet hit the floor each morning until they close their eyes at night.
They laugh at butt-jokes and think watching YouTube videos of other people's wipe-outs is the epitome of classic humor.
With a twitching eye, I watch as my couch and pillows take a beating from WWE grudge matches. And try as I may to find a cure, they all seem to suffer from the exact same raging case of Can't-Find-The-Hamper-itis.
The three of them have a bond like no other. And I absolutely adore watching it grow.
But I'd be lying if I said it didn't leave me feeling a little lonely.
As a mom, I'm raising my boys fully knowing my importance in their lives, though never diminishing, will change. And all I can do is pray that the women who someday hold their hearts will be kind enough to take the baton gently from my hands.
Their dad will always be their first role-model and best friend. And I truly don't believe he'll ever be stripped of the title.
I get to be their first-love.
But not their last.
Still, I'll take the twinge of loneliness. The dreams of wondering if my Mini-Me will ever be. And the countdown of days to hold their hearts on my own.
Because in the end, it's all so worth it.