I grew up in a very female-driven home. Between my mom, sister, and myself, my dad was outnumbered in the area of gender, and having lived most of his life with a mother and two sisters (in addition to an older brother and a father who passed in his childhood), he ceded the house to us. A wise move. If there is one thing our family does well across the board, it is strong women. We are stubborn and confident and hyper-verbal, and then puberty starts and you add in a heavy dose of hormones. While I wouldn't describe myself or my sister as "girly", with our love of sports and sarcasm and jeans, we grew up in a house with flowers on the walls and ruffles on the beds and skirts in the closets. I remember going with my mom to an exercise class, and she asked me to sit in a chair and then went and exercised for half an hour and came back and I was still there. I remember sitting to color, to read, to get my hair brushed. When Liz and I would play Barbies, we would spend an hour just brushing their hair and choosing their clothes and setting up their living room in a corner of our bedroom, and then we could start a scene. We were girls.
When I got married and we were having our first baby, I thought about whether it would be a boy or a girl. Did I want a boy? Eventually I decided that probably a boy would be best, because this child would be a teenager someday, and I really didn't want a teenage daughter who would say to me the things my sister and I had said to our mom. So lucky me, the day came and a little boy came out! I felt like an anthropologist studying another culture, one that didn't hold the same values and taboos as the one I originated from. The gender differences start at birth. You have to decide whether or not to circumcise your son. You and your spouse have to have a conversation about a 1 day old penis. Then there are clothes. Look at the baby store, the side dedicated to girls clothes is huge and colorful and you can choose shirts or dresses or pjs or even little tutus. The boys side...there are shirts and pants. There is blue or green. Dinosaurs or bears. So you don't really get too excited about dressing your son. And the moment he becomes mobile, he goes for wheels, balls, flashy lights, blocks. When I became pregnant a second time, I really wanted to have a little girl. I thought my life would be complete with a husband, a house, a son and a daughter. I was ready to face the teenage years. But the ultrasound showed another penis on its way to the circumcision table. So, huh, okay. I can have boys. When we opened our home as foster parents, I said to my husband, Maybe this is how we'll get a daughter. Obviously he's only shooting boys, so we'll have to depend on someone else's DNA to bring us a girl. And we got another boy. Which means we now have 3 boys in our house. Which means that my entire childhood has prepared me for very little about being a mother. Which means we live in Boy World.
In Boy World, you find cars everywhere. Behind the toilet, in your shoes, in the fridge.
In Boy World, you have entire conversations solely consisting of sound effects. No words necessary.
You get excited along with your kid when the garbage truck comes down the street, or you get stopped at a railroad crossing and get to watch a train go by.
You say things like, "Stop eating the carpet!" "Don't pee on your brother!" "Knives are not toys!"
You learn the names of Thomas and his friends.
You welcome a trampoline so the kids will stop jumping on your bed.
You abandon art projects and just let the kids color their chests with markers.
You learn that a headbutt is a sign of affection.
You know 14 different ways to play with a playground ball, but are completely at a loss when presented with a doll.
You learn to appreciate the way your sons were made, the biological differences between you and your sweet little boys, and the unique opportunity to observe and learn.
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