Our first three children are girls. They are as different as one flower is from another, but each of them are flowers. I didn't know what to expect with the fourth, a boy. Something wild, I supposed, something more mushroom than flower.
And he was born, ready or not, in the middle of a thunderstorm, wrinkled like a morel.
He is surrounded by pink and bright and Barbie dolls. It's hardly the ideal environment to grow a mushroom. But Barbies make nice clubs and there are increasingly more cars and balloons and balls for him to play with.
. . . . . . . .
And Anna just threw up. Nice. Everyone in the house, taking their cue from Daddy, begins crying for Mommy. Gotta run.