As I've mentioned here before, Megan is a competitive gymnast who works out some 16 hours a week.
And I've mentioned before that I spend a lot of that time just sitting in the gym watching her.
Yes, I know I could find better uses for that time, and on occasion, I have. But Megan likes to have me there as an audience, and I have seen enough girls get injured on the equipment to be afraid. (No, I really don't think my presence prevents Megan from getting hurt, but how awful would it be to get the phone call and have to drive 30 minutes to get to your kid who's broken some bones after falling off that nasty balance beam? Yes, I also know that I am neurotic.) Add to that the gym's inconvenient location, the dreadful traffic that time of day -- and my own fatigue factor -- and you've built a pretty good case for having a little quiet time on the sidelines.
One of the ways I've justified this indulgence is that it finally affords me a little time to read. I used to be a voracious reader -- until I met my high-maintenance husband, who wants me to be actively listening to him at all times and thinks there is something wrong if I'm feeling a bit introspective. I don't get a lot of reading done when he's around.
Motherhood to an equally demanding little person has only compounded the situation, which is one of the reasons why I look forward to those hours in the gym. I go there each day with the stacks of magazines that come to our home each month -- which used to just sit gathering dust until the piles got too big (which resulted in me tossing them out to make room for new piles). I now leave the gym feeling contentedly up-to-date after devouring Newsweek, Atlantic Monthly and Vanity Fair, happy with the knowledge that I've made time to learn about the world outside of school and PTA.
Last month, I did something truly daring: I brought an actual book to the gym. OK, so it wasn't A Brief History of Time... but it was a book all the same; a beautiful, sensitive, funny anthology of essays written 
by mothers about the loves of their lives: their sons.
It's a Boy is the latest brainchild of author Andrea J. Buchanan, whose previous book (Mother Shock) so perfectly articulated the wonders -- and terrors -- that accompany the transition from young adult to young mom. Andi is something of a mommy blogging powerhouse (and I use that term with admiration!). She is also the creator of Literary Mama, an online magazine that champions other writers who happen to be mothers.
"Why are YOU reading that?" asked the other gym moms who I chat with each afternoon. They all know that I have just one child, and that one's the girl who could be seen flipping and flopping across the blue mat.
I told them how Andi was an online friend, and that I'd volunteered to read an advance copy of her latest book and write about it here. That's when their eyes glazed over and they went back to cheering on their daughters, allowing me to continue my book fix.
As Andi states in her introduction, the essays within are divided into four broad themes:
"It's a Boy," which features tales of ambivalence, love, and newborn babies; "Will Boys Be Boys?," which explores bullying, violence, and redemption, the otherness and the potential of boys; "The Velvet Underground," which examines gender roles and what we expect from our sons; and "Shapeshifter," which tackles the ever-changing nature of boyness and a mother's role as her son grows.
I related to them all. I remembered when I was pregnant, how I repeated the cliche that I didn't care about my baby's gender, I just wanted it born healthy (while secretly hoping for a girl). I was surprised (and a little relieved) to read essays by women who had felt the same way, and now could not imagine their lives without their boys.
I have no doubt that I would have been just as delighted if we'd had a Mike instead of a Megan - but that it would be different. That was confirmed in the next section, which had me nodding in recognition of all the little boys I know -- including my four nephews, whose energy is a force of nature. I was especially touched by the final section, which reminded me of my oldest nephew in particular, who has grown from a mischievous blond imp who was always scamming us for candy into a strapping 6-foot 17-year-old... who still cannot resist sweets.
What struck me the most about all the essays is how well these writers convey how it feels to raise these exotic creatures. It left me feeling envious, for no matter how hard I try to explain how profound it is to be Megan's mother, I get all tongue-tied and banal. These women can write. I love them and hate them. Most have published novels, which I shall have to start exploring. This book definitely left me wanting more.
"What are you reading?" asked yet another mom. This one has three sons in addition to her gymnast daughter, with ages ranging from 17 on down to 3. I showed her the book, which I had just finished. "You would love this!" I told her, and lent her my copy. Looking back, I realize that was kind of stupid, as now that I am writing this I'm unable to refer to the essays I enjoyed most. Then again, picking just two or three to mention here would be nearly impossible, and there's a lot to be said for brevity online.
Suffice it to say that I'm buying copies as Christmas gifts for my other friends with sons, and am looking forward to the spring 2006 publication of the book's companion piece, It's a Girl.
It will make nice reading at the gym.
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