My son. Son. Son!

You know, I'm not super into strict gender roles. Being multiple, the idea that the body is destiny was broken down into itty pieces a long time ago. I know guys in girl bodies, girls in guy bodies, gay boys, lesbian girls, bisexual everyones; warm and gentle men, violent and harsh women.

At the same time, I'm 34, and when I was growing up, a lot of the words above effectively didn't exist (bi-what???). And although I don't believe sex is destiny, I do believe that gender roles exist - either as something to embrace or rebel against or both.

Some things, I think are good to conform to. I wouldn't send my son to daycare in a dress to prove a point. (On the other hand, if he insisted, I wouldn't peel it off him either.) Others, not so much. Any child of ours will get both dolls and facsimile power tools both (as well as, I bet, a tiny motorcycle), and the child can work out which toys are better. The same books will be read at bedtime. Carl will change diapers and do laundry while I mow the lawn, at times, because that's how we operate already, and I'll expect my kids to learn the same.

So why am I grieving the loss of girly things? I don't feel the loss of "mummy's little helper" (ugh). I don't believe sons are less bonded to their mothers. And ultimately a healthy breathing child is just fine with me.

I think I'm grieving my expertise as a woman. After a painful and clueless childhood and adolescence with a mum who didn't help a lot with dressing appropriately or learning to apply deodorant, I have set out to learn about women. I've read Our Bodies, Our Selves and Raising Ophelia; I've learned to navigate girl friendships, at least enough.

And when I was pregnant with Emily and we found out she was a girl, that was surprisingly exciting me for and cosy to imagine, in some distant future. Because I had to work so hard at figuring out girl mores, I felt like I could probably - you know - help in some way that maybe Carl couldn't and I felt special. Sad, but true.

And now I'm having a son. And that is great. I genuinely like boys, I've often been better friends with boys (me, Shandra), and in fact a lot of how I like to relate to people is kind of - boyish, to use traditional definitions. Being able to portage a canoe on my own is one of my favourite secret skills. Meeting at the gym to work out together still makes more sense to me than shopping in groups. The stuff mums complain about with boys - the pee spread around the bathroom - doesn't phase me much.

But I'm not an expert in being one. I'll be educating my son on the other sex, not his own.

So I'm kind of mourning that. At the same time I see Carl, a little, having the moments of realization that he is going to be the expert in these fine points of sex. This came up right away around circumcision, because I said I'd prefer that he call that one, since I have no idea what it is like to manage a penis and reading about it is not the same.

And again, it drives home the point that my daughter is dead.

And that my son is alive, so far. And that is the really cool part. Now when I imagine a naked baby, I know which parts to sketch in. I can picture my nephews and imagine some of the same mannerisms. I can start experimenting with Noah to see if that's really the right name.

It's very cool.