Snips and snails and puppydog tails: After two lovely girls, I have received the challenge of raising a boy. This curly-haired ragamuffin passes through superheroes, police and firefighters, zombies and vampires--sometimes simultaneously! He may tout a motorcycle helmet, vampire cape, Ironman underwear and boots one morning, pounding down the hallway on his way to....fight the bad guys? be the bad guy?
I watch, mostly, astounded, sometimes on the verge of appalled, as my little man grasps his newest toy, asking himself: "How does this break?" It is his birthright, I guess, to break, then cry because it is broken: his Batmobile, his Lego helicopter, his mother's heart!
I have done my best to shift out of the LaLa Land my daughter's brought me to, hands held. I sit between my Coloring-Quietly Six-Year-Old and the Tasmanian Devil who has constructed a battle scene at my kitchen table: soldiers on one side, zombies on the other, all of them against the giant spider menacing the world in the middle of this chaotic warzone.
No, this is not LaLa Land! This is serious business, this Boyhood. For a while, the song was "We don't play with guns." But sticks became a gun, magic wands became a gun, swords--I know! It's a weapon already!--became a gun! What's a mommy to do? I stutter now, when I say it: "We don't shoot people!" because not only does this boy of mine turn everything into a gun, but the people surrounding us have a tendency to give him guns: double-barrel shotguns, Star Wars guns and light sabers, cowboy six-shooters...
I have become a different kind of driver because of my son. We seek out cops, fire engines, guys on motorcycles. We roll down the windows and wave with the enthusiasm of, well, a four-year old. "Hi!" he'll yell with love in his heart, a huge smile on his face, joy in his voice. They all wave back...
Besides, what mommy couldn't use someone in the back warning you about the police car behind you?!
My son and I rarely build things without an earthquake, godzilla, perhaps an unnamed monster of the Human variety knocking it down: destruction should've been my boy's middle name. While my daughters pirouette and float, this guy jumps and stomps, flailing, kicking at the air--joyfully! My girls find beauty in pinks, purples, sparkles. Our boy wants skulls, shrunken heads, mummies, blood! Halloween, for this one, lasts all year long.
At first, I was flabbergasted. I didn't get it. But I see him, really see him, lounging in his car seat, watching all those cool cars and trucks go by. There is contentment on his face. His wants are simple: hang out with me and check out the cars. Hang out with me and build a story with his Lego people. Hang out with me and whisk the eggs (just another form of destruction, mind you!).
I have insights into the opposite sex that I did not have after years of marriage. Boys are simple: they want to play, physically. They want to hang out with their favorite people: Me! They love to shock and scare you--proof, after all, that you are truly interacting! They build things, destroy, build again, but in the midst of all that construction and destruction is a little man prancing toward you with a "mommy, come see what I made!" smile on his face. The icing on his cake is when you join in the neverending process of construct-crash-smash...and help him clean it all up.
I realize my responsibility: I am molding a Man. Someday this lovely boy will shave, shoot hoops, fall in love...wear a tie! I see my calling here: raise a man that I would want my daughters to marry. This finished product, above all, should be a nice guy.
I duck my head as the remote control helicopter goes whizzing past me, read stories of love and caring, remind him one more time that we don't hit people, hug him deeply. I watch, satisfied, as Spiderman flies in to visit the Batcave, and, upon leaving, gives Batman a kiss good-bye. Yes, I think he'll be alright...
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