November, 2006
What is it with boys? I have raised girls for (15+13+8+6=) 42 years without a single incidence of armpit flatulence. Yet in seven short years, Ian not only mastered the original hand-in-the-armpit version, but he also began to elaborate on them. He figured out how to do one while holding his free hand pointed like a gun so that the flatulent noise would double as a gunshot. Then he began shooting unsuspecting guests at our front door and people in the foyer at church. Not long after, he spent a day with two other boys and learned how to stick a straw in his armpit, blow and produce a new drawn-out thirty-second version of his armpit fart. When he first showed off this new skill, I sat amazed, stunned even, by what seemed to amuse this child. But when I realized that Mike was giggling right along with Ian, I was totally floored. What is it with guys and bodily functions?
Ian also seems to have a stronger competitive streak than his sisters. When EIE* were in a tae kwon do class, I watched Emma throw a punch that wouldn’t have dented a cotton ball. Then she giggled afterwards like she had committed some devious sin. Elly punched OK, but Ian was out for blood. He nailed the punching mitt like it had just insulted him and he was out to kill it. Ian eats like a horse and usually tries to be the first one done. And he tries to be the first in line, taking the biggest snack. And the first in the car, taking the preferred seat. This fall in school, a major learning lesson was that the goal is not to be the first done but to have as many correct as possible. Even a simple leisurely walk turns into a competition with Ian always having to be a half-step ahead of me.
When we travel, he always has to do the hotel key – especially if his Dad can’t get it on the first try - pushing Mike aside to show him how. His socks are dirtier and his underwear have more tire tracks. His hair gets sweatier and his shirts, at age seven, already smell the worst. He’s proud of the fact that he’s taller, heavier, louder, whatever-er, just so long as he’s top of the heap. Recently Ian learned to whistle. But so did Elly. So he had to be better at it than she. He diligently began to practice. All day. For days on end. While Emma and Elly sang love songs he’d whistle the theme song to Star Wars. Can you feel the love tonight? Cue Darth Vader.
Then last spring he learned about video games. I never have cared for them. When we finally allowed one on the computer, we watched as, in an instant, our son disappeared. His body was there but his mind was gone. He ceased responding to our questions, lost in his virtual world. No one taught him how, but within minutes his fingers were flying over the keyboard, punctuated by jerking head movements and accompanied by guttural comments to the characters on the screen. He even forgot snack time. But when he forgot to get up to use a toilet, we realized we’d have to limit this beast to one hour on weekends only.
This summer I hauled out an old Sega Game Gear thing for a long airplane ride. (The thing was12 years old - an antique in techno terms, discarded by older sisters who found it dull.) But for Ian, it was pure bliss. He began playing it in the car on the way to the airport. We never heard a word out of him. The whole day. Grunts, growls, zooms, and groans, yes. But words, no. One afternoon on our vacation his sisters tried it. They carried on a conversation the whole time they played with it, discussing their latest plans for their dolls and singing songs in lieu of listening to the Game Gear’s beeps and chimes. And then they unceremoniously dumped it long before their allotment of time was up.
Yet, amazingly, this same competitive stereotype of a boy has a tender side as well. When Anna is gone, he takes her dog under his wing and I see nurturing flow from him like nectar. When Emma or Elly get hurt – if he didn’t perpetrate the injury – he puts his arm around them and gives comfort to the injured. And if you caress his back, he’s putty in your hands.
I read Dr. Dobson’s Bringing Up Boys, but I still don’t fully understand these creatures called sons. I just pray that someday I will get a daughter-in-law with a heart ready to accept him as he is and equally ready to forgive me for when he acts like a guy.
Like a rock,
The Submissive Despot
Amy Louise
Amy Shane
*For those unfamiliar with this, EIE refers to my three youngest children (Emma, Ian, and Elly) who frequently operate as a single, collective unit.
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