Three boys. Oh my.

In less than a month, my niece and her husband will be welcoming home a third son. Chrisy and Blair are the parents of two wonderfully behaved 3-year-old twin boys, and they're looking at their expected third boy as a genuine blessing.

Chrisy smiles when people say "three boys, oh my" and claims she's happy as long as the baby's healthy. But Chrisy loved dressing up in gowns for Mardi Gras balls, has a beautiful collection of Barbie dolls and taught dance classes for years. She was probably hoping to pass those loves on to a daughter.

I know how she feels. Many years ago, before parents could find out the sex of their unborn baby, I assumed my babies would be girls because I wanted a daughter so badly.

When I found out I was expecting, I made a soft pink blanket to wrap around my baby when she finally arrived. Just to be on the safe side, I stopped in a baby boutique and bought a beautiful lacy white newborn bonnet and carefully tucked it in my suitcase.

Surprise. My first-born was a boy, and I reluctantly returned the bonnet and traded it for a kid's LSU baseball cap.

I was thankful I had a healthy baby, but secretly, I wanted a daughter who would share her hopes about becoming a woman with me, a daughter who would grow into my friend, just as I have with my mother.

When I found out I was expecting a second child, I instinctively knew he was a boy. Still, there was a 50/50 chance for a girl, so I quietly crept back to the baby section in a department store, bought another white, frilly bonnet and tucked it into my suitcase.

And, a few months later, I traded the bonnet for a baseball cap.

With my third pregnancy, my mom said she was hoping I'd finally get that girl, but I knew better than to think pink.

Still, I went back to the same store, a 2-year-old toddler and squirmy 7-year-old in tow, and nonchalantly bought another white, lacy bonnet.

Once again, I tucked that bonnet in the back part of my suitcase.

And, once again, traded the lace for sturdy denim.

Thankfully, my three boys are healthy, intelligent young men, and they've brought us great happiness. Chrisy's third boy will bring her the same amount of joy. However, the joy that comes from rambunctious young sons is served up a bit differently.

We want pink ballerina shoes. We get muddy boots.

We hope for pink bubble baths. We get rings of brown dirt in the bathtub.

We want lacy nightgowns. We settle for camouflage underwear.

The mothers of girls will say they get the same mud, sass and sweat as the boys, but as I watch my granddaughter, I'm amazed at the different way she approaches life as compared to my sons.

My granddaughter snuggles with her favorite baby doll, cooing and singing her to sleep.

My boys slept with their Ninja Turtles and He-Man swords, but they beheaded Michelangelo and Splinter before dawn.

My granddaughter says "excuse me" when she burps. My sons belched as loud as possible and believed putting their cupped hands underneath their armpits and pumping their elbows up and down like greased lightning was great fun.

But my sons are my friends and they've brought wonderful women into my life who've become the daughters I didn't have.

So, my dear niece, you might not get the pink perks that go along with rearing a daughter, but the joys of being the mother of boys are just as rewarding.

They're simply buried underneath a mountain of smelly socks, bright red Matchbook cars and dried-out pizza crusts.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.