Girls Will Be Girls: Except When They’re Boys

“Here she is,” announced my doctor as my baby took her first breath. I held her, secretly relieved my first was a girl. I grew up one of three sisters so females were familiar. I did my share of dating, and was married, but I was no expert on the opposite sex. Venus...Mars. Tomato...To-mah-to.

But a girl’s life I did know. The good, the bad, and the vicious. I knew it well and was confident my daughter would benefit from my battle scars hard-earned wisdom.

Are you laughing yet?
Like my daughter would listen to any advice I had to offer.
If you believe that, I've got a gas-guzzling Hummer you might like to buy.

The fantasies of intimate mother/daughter chats about puberty, introducing her to my generation's bible, “Are You There God, It’s Me, Margaret, explaining the mystery of mean girls, social cliques, S-E-X ... I get none of that. Any hint that I am about to broach the subject of periods or pubic hair and my daughter is all “Lalalalalalalalala, I can’t heaaaarrrrr you” and out the door faster than I can say "but I'll buy you a video IPod....." And she needs no advice from me on handling cattiness and cliques - she manages them just fine on her own.

When I found out the sex of my second child, I freaked out. The thought of a penis growing inside me was just – ewwww. The things I knew about penises I assure you were not going to come in handy with a baby. I am not into competitive sports, I don’t like playing them or watching them on tv. I don’t have many close male friends, so what, other than being his mommy, was I going to have in common with my boy?

More than I ever thought possible. You see, my son, despite his gregarious and often inappropriate personality, is super sensitive. Those intimate talks I dreamed of having with my daughter, the ones about bodies maturing, where we go when we die, what our souls look like, I have those with my son. He can't get enough. He has all the machismo of a boy: he loves sports, balls, guns (he can turn a benign piece of buttered toast into the meanest rifle) but the slightest drop of blood makes him queasy, diarrhea turns him into Chicken Little, and the slightest affront causes his body to stiffen and his upper lip to quiver.

The dreams of guiding my daughter through teenage angst are coming into play... but with my eight year old son. To make matters more surprising, he plays for the opposing team. He is, I fear, a mean boy. Decades ago, I might have been his victim. I shudder as he recounts how he and his friends ousted some boys from their group because they cry, they cheat at handball, or, they’re just annoying. Hearing him deliver haughty commentary about peers who scored poorly on tests and who wear the wrong kind of undergarments (apparently boxer-briefs are in), I feel as if I'm fraternizing with the enemy. I'm disappointed and scared for him knowing that bad karma will, one day, swing in his direction.

I offer the requisite parental wisdom...

“If you don’t have anything nice to say…” “
Treat people the way you want to be treated”
“Keep your hands to yourself”
“Don’t pick your nose in public”

...but my boy has me stumped. I'm convinced he tells me all that he does because he knows his behavior is wrong and wants me to tell him so. But when I oblige, his chest puffs out with testosterone and he becomes steely and impenetrable.

Life throws you curve balls and I’m a lousy catcher. I never expected my boy to behave like this. All these years I've been coaching the wrong player. I love my son. He is smart, charming, funny, and sensitive. He is, as all mother’s say, a good boy. But I’m not in denial. He’s attracted to the movers and shakers, the boys with older siblings who have their fingers on the pulse and command the playground. He’s in awe of the older kids who skateboard in front of the local Starbucks. He emulates their style. He leans toward danger.

When my son was born, everyone said boys are easier. Where are you people? I have a bone to pick with you.