DotMoms

Boys will be boys and moms will be flustered

By Amanda

I have a confession to make: I'm a girl mom. Completely, 100 percent, not a shred of boy-mom in me. If I were to have a boy, I'm not sure I would know what to do with him since he probably wouldn't be interested in a getting a pedicure with me. 

I am jarred into the reality of my single-sex parenting skills whenever we have a boy at our house for a playdate. They do things that I would never have anticipated, like climbing things, sliding down the stairs on garbage bags, jumping from one piece of furniture to another. It's like I'm visiting a foreign country where I don't speak the language. I'm never sure how to handle these situations, especially when my girls fall right into line behind them. 

I have no boy toys; instead we have lots of girl stuff -- dress-up clothing, art supplies, Barbies, no trucks, no video games, no guns. But the thing about boys is that they can make anything into a gun or sword -- a stick, their fingers, anything. 

I really have to hand it to boy-moms. The stamina, energy and patience you exhibit every day is amazing to me. One playdate exhausts me enough to realize that you are truly special people. I clearly don't have what it takes. God must have been paying attention when he decided to give me girls.

"No way, not a boy for Amanda. She can't handle it. She doesn't have the right stuff. Let's give her girls, hopefully she can handle the whining," God must have said.

I really learned more about the other gender when I read a friend's new book about raising boys.  "House of Testosterone: One Man's Survival in a Household of Males" by Sharon O'Donnell (Jefferson Press, 2007) provides great insight into what the parenting journey is like when you are a lone female in a house full of men, albeit some of them little men. From smelly shoes to toilet lids left up to a calendar filled with sporting events, it's another world when you're a boy-mom.

I can paint tiny nails bright pink like it's nobody's business. I am great at throwing a princess costume together for a party at the last minute, but I don't know how to play soccer, and I'm not really sure what a Power Ranger is. I guess all mothers have our strengths and weaknesses.

Amanda lives in North Carolina with her husband and two daughters.   

My son is a boy

By Alicia

My 10–month-old is playing in the bath. I'm swirling little, plastic sea creatures in the water between his legs to keep him occupied when he discovers something much more interesting. Reaching beneath a little duckie that is floating by, my sweet, innocent boy spies his penis and begins pinching it lightly between his tiny thumbs and forefingers, a small frown of concentration changing into a tentative smile.

I notice his discovery and say in my sing-song mommy voice designed to telegraph interest and inspire curiosity, "What's that, honey? Did you find your pee-pee? Is that your pee-pee?"

This morning he did not recognize actual words and my voice was just the soundtrack to his life. But now my sweet, innocent, cherub-boy looks up at me and beams the most mischievous, maniacal, monkey grin that can be beamed with only two teeth. He is absolutely adorable in his utter delight. I say it again, more tentatively this time, "Pee-pee?" He beams back at me. My heart becomes heavier.

"And so it begins," I think.

When I told my mom about it later she snorted, "Men!"

"From the time they're eight months until they're 80!" she said.

Exactly.

That is exactly the problem. Something so important to him and I have no knowledge of it, nothing to offer in real experience about that part of his life. He'll be living a life of the male experience and I will simply watch, not having experienced it myself. This was the fear that flashed through my heart, spreading a sense of dread and anxiety in its wake, more than a year ago when the cheerful sonographer declared, "It's a boy!"

Throughout my entire pregnancy I was a mix of befuddlement and skepticism about my baby's gender. "What am I supposed to do with a boy?" I wondered. Out loud. Often.

Whenever someone asked if I knew the gender I would say almost pleadingly, hoping they could impart wisdom that would illuminate the path on which I was about to embark, "It's a boy. I'm having a boy. What do I do with a boy?" I said the word "boy" over and over, hoping it would sink in.

I mean, I know what women are like; I love being one and I love hanging out with them. I get girls. But a boy??? A boy meant hours of playing trains and smashing toy cars and, eventually, endless hours of video games and, heaven help me, the Three Stooges.

"Maybe he will be a boy with a really big feminine side," I reassured myself hopefully.

He's been warning me this may not be the case, though. At five months old he started bouncing up and down whenever we got near anything that lit up or blipped and the only thing he would "eat" at first was a cell phone or the remote control (the real one, how do they know?). Love of gadgets? Male.

At Christmas, he rejected blocks, a musical train, and an animated shape sorter all for the junior version of whack-a-mole. Instead of electronics, his new-found obsession is hammering four-colored balls into their respective holes. He loves this game beyond all reason, practicing whacking like it was a religion; sometimes bashing away randomly in the general direction of the toy and sometimes methodically pummeling the same ball until it succumbs and drops into the hole. Pointless smashing? Very male.

A tiny pang of disappointment hit me as I first watched him pound away at the balls. I was happy to see his enthusiasm and growing dexterity, but he was a boy, after all, and I would only be able to guide him so far before he would continue down a road that I do not travel.

And that was the moment I faced when he was playing in the tub. Although he didn't know it, that was the first time I couldn't really, viscerally share his experience with him. The most I could do was smile and wish him luck, "Yep, that's your pee-pee, love. I don't know what to tell you about it, really... You can ask your daddy, he can tell you all about it."

I sat by the tub, feeling alienated from my baby for the first time since he's been born.

After a few moments he held up his chubby arms, signaling to be picked up. I scooped him up and he smiled his delight that I understood what he wanted. His arms went around my neck, holding me in a hug. My heart melted because it felt so right. "He's my boy," I thought. Suddenly playing with cars and watching the Three Stooges seemed to make perfect sense.

Alicia and her family live in Vermont.

Through thick and thin

By Amy Heesacker

Perhaps it's because my husband has been focused on (and been very successful at) losing weight in recent months. Or maybe it's because my daughter is going through another growth spurt while my son is not. Whatever the reason, I've been very aware of the differences between my children's body shapes lately –- and I'm not at all comfortable with my own response.

My son's shape is short and skinny. He's not the smallest in his class (there is one other boy who is the youngest and the smallest), but his size was one of the factors I considered when determining the best year to start kindergarten. I ultimately decided to start him at the usual time, but I still have concerns about my choice. It's no secret that taller, stronger boys and men have an easier time in our society. There are plenty of exceptions, of course, but I've noticed that I am becoming hyper-vigilant about Javi's eating habits, hinting at the goal to "grow up big and strong," and constantly pushing food on him with this typical interaction:

"Javi, would you like some yogurt or maybe a cheese stick?" I ask pleadingly.
"Uhm, no thank you," he responds passively.
"I want yogurt AND a cheese stick, Mommy!" my daughter exclaims. "And a quesadilla!"

My daughter's shape is tall and burly. She's not the biggest in her class (there is one other girl that is the oldest and the largest), but her size is something I worry about lately and more than I'd like to admit.

I love that Isa is strong enough to easily kick through a board while imitating her brother's karate, but it's no secret that thin (and probably too thin!) is the hyper-idealized goal for girls in our society. I've noticed that I have an odd recurring fantasy that Javi and Isa could switch body shapes -– just to "make things easier" on both of them. And I don't feel good about this preoccupation of mine.

I don't want to contribute to any issues my children may develop about their bodies because of internalized prejudices that I've soaked up in my thirty-some years of exposure to Barbie and Ken. My kids are brilliant and therefore able to discern even the subtlest cues about my feelings. So I need to shape up; first, by reminding myself that my kids are healthy and happy in their adorable bodies, and second, by re-reading Dr. Seuss who once wisely declared, "Of all the shapes we might have been... I say 'Hooray!' for the shapes we're in!"

Amy Heesacker is a thirty-something SAHM and part-time psychology professor living in the deep South with her husband and two children.

When guns are good

By Christine

Hold it. This is not a propaganda piece for the National Rifle Association. Nor am I Bree Van de Kamp. But it is a woman's perogative to change her mind. And I have. I've revised my view on toy guns.

Several years ago I wrote a piece called "Guns and Proses," bemoaning my then three-year-old's preoccupation with a ridiculously innocuous piece of plastic. It was a pop gun with a blue ball that bounced lazily across the floor at the click of the trigger. Observing his love for the toy, I was up in arms (pun intended). And I wrote about it.

Despite massive negotiations with my child, he refused to let go of his toy. Any veteran parent knows that trying to reason with a three-year-old is like expecting your white carpeting to shine after inviting over the adorable 101 Dalmatians for tea. The two simply don't jive. In my view, at the time, neither did a gun and my baby boy.

I tried hiding his toy gun. No dice. His arsenal radar was already in full swing. At some point, I threw it out, then retrieved it. The crushed look in his eye spoke volumes. Calculating his future therapist's bill, I sheepishly washed off the breakfast remains from the gun and handed it back to him. To be honest with you, several weeks later, the item surreptitously found its way back to the garbage can. This time, it was the outdoors one. He promptly forgot about his beloved toy for months. In an exemplary application of superior parenting, I convinced him to use a stick as a gun. That strategy lasted for two years.

Until show-and-tell last Thursday.

"Alex showed off his toy gun yesterday," Jackson informed me. I continued wiping the breakfast table.

"...with handcuffs," he pressed on. I silently raised a brow.

"Where's my gun? Mama, I need a new one." My heart sank to my knees. Pushing air from my lungs, I knelt down to his level. "Lucky Luke has one," he remarked.

Ah yes. He watches 42 minutes of TV per day, and Lucky Luke has started running in his allotted time slot between dinner and bedtime.

"Oh."

I'm so lame, I thought. Think. Think. THINK!

Then something clicked. He was wearing his black cowboy hat and black T-shirt, looking smashing and not unlike the late Johnny Cash. I dried my hands, sat him on my lap at the table and typed www.JohnnyCash.com into the laptop's browser.

"See!" I exclaimed merrily. "Johnny is a singer/cowboy/songwriter!" I held out hopes that my muscially inclined progeny would suddenly replace his love of weaponry for the love of a six-string. Jackson pointed to the cowboy boots at the top of the screen.

"He's a cowboy, and I want his gun."

Not even Johnny could save me this time.

"We'll go this afternoon between Sophia's ballet and a few other errands," I promised. A sheath of glee transformed his face.

Six hours later, we stood in front of the toy gun display at the local toy store. Fearful that I might change my mind, Jackson decided quickly.

As we neared the cash register, a gun holster with bucking broncos caught my eye.

"Every cowboy needs a holster," I said, laying it on the checkout counter, too.

Jackson's eyes filled with love, spilling over to his cheeks and washing away the pain of his once three-year-old mug marked by my heinous gun-tossing crime.

The cost of the gun and holster? $12. His bow-legged, gun-toting gait as we approached the pet store afterwards? Priceless.

In the eyes of a little boy, a gun makes you a hero, not a criminal as we view it. We adults often think children see it our way. The fact is oftentimes they do not. That day, my son did not see me as a criminal who had cast away his favorite plaything. That day, he saw me as a hero, too.

Christine is an American author and freelance writer living near Munich, Germany, with her husband and two children (Jackson, 5, and Sophia, 7).

Sugar and Spice and Three Dog Night

By Jenn

One of the promises I made myself when I was pregnant the first time around was that I would not talk down to my child or sugar-sweet him into a sensory overload catatonic state. My son is now 13 and I am realizing that it was the best thing I could do for him and for us. Now, when we need to talk, we cut through inane dialogue, avoid the awkward stammering and just say what we need to say.  Granted, that means I have heard more than one "inappropriate" word come out of my son's mouth when we are talking freely, but I can handle that because we are talking. A 13-year-old boy and his mom are talking without boundaries. 

I carried that self-imposed rule down to my second son, as well as my daughter. All three of them know that they can say anything to me when they want to talk. That doesn't always mean I like hearing what they say, but I do like that they are willing to say it. This freedom comes with another unique set of problems for me. It has nothing to do with my children, actually; it has to do with the fact that my entire life as a mother has been spent without doing "sugar and sunshine," so I have a very hard time figuring out how to do that when other mothers do. 

When a group of women gathers and talks about the joys of motherhood and how perfect it is, I listen and nod, but stay silent. What I want to say is, "That puberty sure is a pain in the butt! There are days I just feel like running away." However, many times when I mutter such a thing I would get The Look. The look that would normally accompany someone who said, "I sure would like to sell my kids to the circus and take a trip to Hawaii with the money earned!" (For the record, I only said that once and I was mostly kidding.)

When other mothers told me about dancing around singing lullabies or educational songs with their children, I thought to myself, "MY kids love hearing Aretha Frankin or Three Dog Night." These moms would talk about getting up super early and making sure their kids were dressed, fed and ready to go to Mommy & Me by 9 a.m. I was thanking the gods of infant sleeping if mine would actually sleep until 9 a.m. Mommy & Me was for after coffee and the "Today" show.

I questioned myself more than once about whether or not I was doing my kids justice as a mother. Until I realized where I gained my mothering style. From my own mother.

She's the one who taught me by example to not apologize for who I am. She showed me that to earn the R-E-S-P-E-C-T that Aretha sings about, it has to first come from within. And most importantly, if what you are doing works for you and for your family, make no apologies. That is the best mothering advice I could ever give or receive.

Jenn is a 37-year-old freelance writer and mom who works from the Texas home she shares with her husband and three children.

Politically correct parenting

By Kelly

At fourteen, Tyler has a quirky and still-developing sense of humor and wants to express it freely. I had to draw the line with the button he recently wore home on his shirt that said: If they don't get your joke, riddle them with bullets.

When I told him it had to go back to the store for either a refund or an exchange for something less dangerously provocative, he was angry that I would stifle his creative expression. "What's the big deal? It's not like I would DO it."

I pointed out three recent news stories about school shootings and my constant fear that something like that could happen in our so-called safe world. I said that kids thinking violence is funny and parents not knowing it, or not caring about it, is one of the things that makes me so afraid to send my kids out into the world without me every day. I think it's at the heart of why so many kids are acting out with violence. I would not just let it slip by and say, "Oh, he's just expressing his sense of humor." No way.

He teared up and took off the button.

"I just don't understand how you think that's even remotely funny," I said.

"Mom, I didn't think of it like that. It's just a funny play on words. A joke? A riddle?"

"Right," I countered. "Bullets? Death? Killing? Dead?"

"Okay! I know! I'm returning it."

Which he did a few days later, and came home with two new ones that other people might find equally offensive and provocative.

I found Jesus. He was behind the couch the whole time.

A village in Texas has lost its idiot in block letters below Bush’s grinning mug.

So do we have to train our kids to be so politically correct that they can't wear their sense of humor on their sleeves? I'm at a loss. Did I let him keep the new ones because I think they're funny? Because they resonate with my political leanings, with my grain-of-salt attitude about historical religious figures and religion in general?

Yes. Yes I did. And if they don't get the joke? Well, I hope he'll just smile knowingly and walk away.

Kelly Ferry lives in Northeast Ohio with her husband, teen son, and toddler daughter. She writes when she can, thinks about writing when she can't, and knows more will be revealed.

One of those days...

By Maeve

The last 24 hours have been Harry's naughtiest yet on record. He is only 2-years-old. Today, I feel about 50.

Yesterday - before nine o'clock in the morning, he got a chair, climbed up to the cupboard, found the bottle of Calpol and drank it, (luckily there was hardly any left), sprinkled it on the armchair and all down his clean clothes. He then removed his clothes for another day of being naked, and promptly peed on the new rug.

Later he stood on the arm of the sofa and removed all the books from three high shelves, hurling them onto the floor and posting them down the back of the sofa. These aren't just any old books - it was my special antique collection, (was - being the operative word.)

After that he unplugged the video machine and TV and removed all the wires from the back and hid them around the house. He then threw the TV onto the floor, closely followed by the video machine. Now the TV has a big hole in it and makes a terrible vibrate-y noise all through my favorite soap!

A bit later he sneaked into the kitchen and stole the new box of rice cereal and took it into the sitting room and liberally sprinkled everything with hundreds of those stupid little crispies. Then he climbed onto the arm of a chair and pulled the huge mirror off the mantelpiece and onto his head.

Finally, after a busy day trying to keep up with him and cleaning up after him, I left him and his brother watching children's TV while I went into the kitchen to feed the baby his supper. Peace at last. But when it goes so quiet I get suspicious and yes - I was right to be. They had found the pot of nappy cream and COVERED the sofa, both armchairs, the coffee table, one of the new rugs (the one he hadn't peed on), the TV and each other. From head to toe they were white - it was even in their hair. I tucked them into bed at 6:30 p.m. - because it seemed the only safe thing to do...

This morning, before 9 a.m., Harry got a chair and unlocked the kitchen door and unlocked my study and found the iron. He took it into the sitting room, put it face down on the carpet, plugged it in and then left it.... It's going to be another of those days!

Maeve is a freelance writer and mother to four boys.

 

Sweetie, buddy, honey...squirrel?

By Amy M.

Nicknames are a funny thing. Sometimes it’s obvious where they came from, but often not. For example, anyone who does not know my “maiden” name (I have to put “maiden” in quotes because I think the terminology is sexist) would be surprised to hear my husband call me “Millie.” I actually think it’s sort of cute, especially because we’re not the type to use terms of endearment.

When I was pregnant, and before we knew we were having a boy, we referred to the baby as “Bean” (shortened from “Jelly Bean”). Later in my pregnancy, we started calling him Alex. When he was first born, we used all the typical affectionate terms showered on babies. And as we became loopier due to lack of sleep, we started calling him sillier names, like “Al Pal” (because he had an alligator whose tag said “My Pal Al”) and “Alex Capalex” (I don’t know where that came from).

The most, uh, unique (some may call it strange) nickname is the one that stuck, and now even my parents use it. When Alex was about 2 ½, we were talking about his favorite flavors of ice cream, and Brian mentioned peanut butter swirl. All Alex got out of that was the “peanut” and the “swirl,” although he thought Brian had said “squirrel.” All of a sudden he started calling himself “peanut squirrelly.”

And the name stuck. Now he’s our little “Peanut Squirrel,” often shortened to one or the other. “Peanut” is a relatively common term of endearment for a child, but I’ve certainly never heard anyone else refer to her child as “Squirrel.” It seems fitting for Alex because he can be a little, well, squirrelly—acting a bit secretive, as if he’s hiding something (although he’s never hiding nuts). Unlike the squirrels, however, he always has a little gleam in his eye and we know he’s just playing around. For a 4-year-old, he’s awfully good at teasing.

Fortunately squirrels have always had a soft spot in my heart, not because of my love of rodents, but because they are sort of an unofficial mascot for my university. When people return to campus they are always happy to see (and sometimes feed) the squirrels.

So there you have it. I have admitted to referring to my son as a bushy-tailed, beady-eyed rodent—but always with affection. What nicknames do you have for your children?

Amy M. lives in Pennsylvania with her son and her husband. She works full time as a writer/editor for a large university.

Learning the social rules of 'tween dating

By Melissa

My 11-year-old son has his first girlfriend.

They do not speak to each other.

This is my first brush with how awkward it's going to be to deal with this growing son. I want to be supportive, yet I'm not sure how to define this new relationship and in turn, how to parent him through it. He tells me Casey is his girlfriend because he sent her a note that asked, "Will you be my girlfriend?" She did not answer, but her friend was sent undercover during reading time and responded with Casey's affirmative reply. His first relationship was born.

However, they are required by the social rules of elementary school not to speak to one another. It's so very Victorian. The tiniest of love notes are passed, they must not assume so much as to speak directly, they pine appropriately for the other after school. Fascinating.

I ask mom-questions. Do you like her? Answer: duh. Did you see Casey today? Answer: duh. Are you going to call her? Answer: red-hot blushing.

Calling on the phone is apparently permitted by these strict social rules, but neither has gone through the act of dialing the numbers. After a few weeks of working up the courage to ask Casey's friend for Casey's number, to do so in person violates social constructs, Daniel gets his girlfriend's number. Now he's hoarding it in his special drawer where he keeps favorite rocks and prized Lego creations. Now that summer's arrived in it's scorchy, muggy glory, I thought the phone calls might also arrive.

Nope.

I wonder if he'll even see her when they start sixth grade in the fall. Yet, it doesn't seem to matter. He likes her. She likes him. That's all there is to worry about.

He likes to shyly confide the reasons why he likes this girl in the sweet moments I have him alone in the car or when we're washing the dishes. To watch him in this in-between time is interesting, weird, and lovely all at once.

He likes her simply because she's nice.  He might call her one day, but I doubt it will be soon.

Melissa is a thirty-year-old art historian and mama to two boys (11 and 10) living in Missouri. She and her husband are threatening to have another baby.

Youth Manager Position

by Mindy

Job Description: Responsible for managing mostly small humans (1 to 10 at a time) within the constraints of scope, quality, time, and cost, and working within established Child Protective Service policies and guidelines, to nurture and groom offspring for acceptance in society at large. Also, anything else the wind might blow your way.

Primary Duties:

• Work directly with the child, family, and the Holy Spirit in hopes that expectations are real and clear to all family members, and education and social objectives are being met within the constraints of the space-time continuum and according to the laws of physics.


• Report on progress of physical, emotional, psychological and Disney-fetish development, forecast maturation, manage practically-impossible-to-nail-down details of the transfer of charges from one place to another, including communication, assembly and delivery of Superego, and documentation and coordination of end-user interface. Ability to mind-read and teleport a must.


• Oversee resource allocation and task delegation for all family members, and ensure timely and accurate assessment of task participation to avoid tearful accusations of being SO, SO, SO UNFAIR.


• Complete all tasks within budget and time projections no matter how many hours you must "forget" to sleep. Emotional compensation will be provided in lieu of actual monetary remuneration, provided you supply it yourself and do it in private.


• Participate as a member of the family, providing suggestions, feedback, and requests from individuals to the group and to other mommy friends while having no illusions about the amount of control you have (none) and responsibility you carry (all).


• Keep abreast of and share issues with reference to your family and social obligations. Do not under any circumstances become familiar with how "others" do things or how "they" might inform your practices. La la la la la, I can't hear you.

Position Requirements:

• Three to five years zoo-keeping experience


• One of Hermione Granger's time-fixey-thingies


• Formal child development education and/or progress toward certification of competence (provided this takes place solely in your head and does not disturb other moms; they are very busy finding their own way, blindfolded and handcuffed, through a minefield in a blinding snowstorm. Barefoot.)


• Good knowledge of toilet "learning" and hygiene implementation practices and better knowledge of psychological manipulation practices


• Experience managing budgets, schedules and resources (must be fluent in Classroom Flyer Analysis, Newsletter Decoding, Non-vocal Communication, Armenian, and Klingon)


• Track record for managing projects on-time, in-scope and within-budget without laughing


• Must be goal-oriented, have good discipline, and be able to keep family members motivated to tackle days one at a time, with medication if necessary


• Must enjoy a fast-paced dynamic culture with challenges, opportunity and excellent benefits, masochism, humiliation, confusion, and making breakfast for everyone you hope to avoid until school lets out


• Excellent written and verbal communication skills. Telepathy and Omniscience a plus.


• Excellent analytical, troubleshooting and problem solving skills. You'll need them.


• Highly motivated, organized and success-oriented. Also, crazy.

Being a mom offers:

• Generous Over-sharing


• Scant training


• Telecommuting and Flex-time Arrangements (i.e. occasional solo trips to the bathroom without accusation of abandonment but with a side of paranoia)


• Personal and Professional Development, on your own time and at your own expense. We do not need to hear about it.


• Progressive Yet Undetectable Advancement


• Savings and Retirement Plans (including our perennially popular Mommy Needs to Retire Somewhere Quiet Option)


• Not-even-close-to-paid Health and Dental Care. We are not made of money.


• Generous Paid Leave and Vacation Policy, minus the time and permission to take them. It's how we can afford to be so generous.


• Membership and Participation in Professional Organizations such as Mommy and Me, AA, AlAnon. Tenure counts toward Section 8 qualifications.


• Service Recognition (kidding)

To apply, please send your resume and cover letter explaining how your background could possible match and prepare you for the job requirements to [email protected].

Mindy is a divorced mother who lives in the Bay Area with her three children.