Raising four kids has been quite an adventure, but raising three sons was a bit like venturing into a completely uncharted territory. As a young girl, I figured one day I might get married, but it was never an overwhelming desire. If I married at all, it certainly wouldn’t be before I was at least thirty, because you know. . . I had things to do. I was going to write, maybe paint, and most certainly travel the world before I would even consider settling down and getting married. And when I had kids, it would be all girls, just daughters and maybe even five of them. No boys. No way.

I have no idea what this was based on other than the fact I wished I had a bunch of sisters (or at least one) growing up. I have one brother and couldn’t figure him out for the life of me, although he was my very best friend when I was little. I babysat for plenty of kids and had so much fun with the girls especially, creating tea parties, drawing, playing dress up with some of them, swimming, and just a ton of fun things. Then there were the adorable clothes, the hair ribbons, nail polish,  my favorite books that I couldn’t wait to share with them; the list was endless. I realize my activities and expectations were completely gender-centric to somewhat biased roles, but hell, it’s what I enjoyed doing and I wasn’t a fair damsel in distress back then nor did I grow up to be. 
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