I don’t know about you, but I have a hard time with the rough-housing and horseplay that comes along with having a son. Okay, those are totally 50’s terms, yet I can’t think of a better way to say it.
Girls definitely give us moms a huge mental workout. Mine came into this world with an attitude; my closest friend swears she gave her the evil eye on day one. Those little lasses are often cranky and snippy. They can get catty, jealous and yes, they even fight over boys before they’re out of Pull-Ups.
But boys are a different breed. Sometimes they can be so mushy and sensitive, like little Prince Charmings, and other times they’re more like Neanderthals. While my little girl is busily primping in her room, trying on outfit number seven, and attempting to apply eye shadow, my son is out front flying across the yard with reckless abandon, as he tackles a neighbor’s son in a “friendly” game of “touch” football.
My neighbor, who has two sons and a brother, looks on half-heartedly as she files a chipped nail. I, on the other hand, am on the edge of my seat, well, my patch of grass, ready to hurl myself onto the makeshift field at the first sign of injury. Was that a wince? Was that a double- blink? A groan? A sigh? I’m on it, like a ski patrolman on a toboggan.
How can “neighbor mom” be so calm? Does she not realize that this is bound to end when somebody gets hurt? Could an eye not be poked out here?
In retrospect, this isn’t the only time I’ve been uncomfortable with boys being boys. Here’s a list of other boy activities that scare the crap of me
Wresting, checking, playing defense in any sport, playing offense in any sport, jumping off beds, riding bikes over crude paths, roughhousing with the dog, rollerblading without an abundance of padding, and anything that could be described using the word “raucous.” Oh, and climbing trees… did I mention climbing trees?
As a result of my neurotic behavior, one would think I have a wussy little boy who wears sweater vests and challenges grown men to chess.
I do not. In fact, I have the kid who fearlessly throws himself across a field to pull a flag, tries to make it from the bed to the sofa in a single jump, and yes… climbs trees. That means I’ve done this worrying about my son covertly. I know that if I don’t keep MOST of my neurotic tendencies on the down low, it will affect him in some way that will require therapy later in life.
Why can’t I just let him be a boy without all of this stress and anxiety? Maybe you can feel my pain. Maybe as the fairer sex, the thought of body slamming a friend for sport seems odd. Or maybe it’s just me. I guess it could go either way – some of us moms are filing our nails on the sidelines, while the rest of us are biting them.
Which mom are you?
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-Jenny From the Blog