A boy is absolutely unlike a girl; so having girls does not at all prepare you for the advent of the opposite sex. Women’s Lib aside, there IS a difference and it doesn’t necessarily have to do with role playing. As I passed through the kitchen last night I found Mac going through his favorite drawer. You know, the one where we keep all the screw drivers, bits of picture wire, a lid that may someday come in handy to feed kittens, various nails, screws, nuts and bolts (none of which match), and occasionally a pair of pliers that haven’t’ been confiscated for use in the barn lot. The drawer that periodically defies opening due to the hammer that got put in slantwise and is now firmly anchored to the top section.
I’m not sure what he was looking for, but whatever it was he found something better, left the first project in the middle of the living room floor and began another in the middle of the kitchen floor. Which is about par for the course with boys. Their hands seem much more adapted to scattering, throwing, tossing and disassembling than to picking up, putting away and straightening around. Of course they’re also good for pushing lawnmowers, hoeing most of a row of beans, catching a pop fly and handing Dad a wrench that is lying six inches beyond his hand. The boy will first ask, “Where is it?” To which Father will reply, “Come on! If it was a snake it’d bite you!”
A boy will seldom admit to sentimentality and will go to great pains to conceal a tear while watching a sad movie. This does not include, however, an aversion to showering Mom and Dad, on special occasions, with the mushiest greeting cards he can find, or having a ball shopping for Christmas presents for them and for his well-they’re-not-really-so-bad sisters. These gifts are to be admired, used constantly and given thanks for. But woe unto the parent or sibling who tries to plant a thank-you kiss on the cheek of this mini Santa!
Boys are incorrigible teasers and fierce protectors; pint-sized lawyers one minute and judge, jury and executioner the next. As I hung out clothes yesterday afternoon, Mac came around the corner and scored a direct hit on Melyssa with his new squirt gun. Once again I laid down the summer rule for squirt guns. “No shooting people unless they OK it first or you’re in a water fight.” Of course this brought forth all his glorious prose as a defender of his right to bear arms, but I persevered and ended with the usual threat, “The first time one of your sisters comes in dripping without having requested a shower, you’ll lose the gun for a week”
“Then what can I shoot?!” he cried in horror.
“Anything but people,” I reaffirmed, and his eyes lit up with a gleam that said he had struck gold somewhere in that ultimatum. Just in time I caught my mistake and stopped him in mid aim, “A cat will get you a day!” He still hasn’t quite gotten over his disgust with the mores of mothers, and is now waiting grudgingly for the first cookout when he is permitted to keep the cats at a safe distance and douse the flames with his squirt gun.
All in all, a boy is a challenge, a frustration, a dusty delight, and an indispensable part of the education of a mother. And when after a long day filled with the dispensing of cookies, hamburgers, coolade, justice, Band-Aids and advice, she collapses into bed; if she is lucky, just for a moment she will have time to realize that the object of her love, her concern, her occasional exasperation and her prayers is made in the image of God. And that’s worth thinking about.
Donna Swanson c.2008