Boy In The Hood

My home is becoming very male-centric. Boy oh boy (get it?), is it ever. Let me preface this by saying that I grew up in a very female-friendly household. I have one sister and a very willful mother. My poor dad was in the minority although, truth be told, I don’t think he really minded. There wore designer jeans, feathered hair and the daily ritual of making sure that everything looked right in a full-view mirror. I had boy friends and I had boyfriends but nothing — I repeat, nothing — has prepared me for the force of nature that is an almost seven year-old boy.

E was only four when I became a single mom so I had yet to face a real two-to-one male to female ratio in our apartment. And now I feel so overwhelmed that I should probably just start throwing tampons around just to make my presence felt. That's a joke…for now, at least. Right now Mommy rules the house, but I am starting to realize that boyhood is a force to be reckoned with.

You want an example? Here goes:

Although I prefer not to have toy guns in the house, E manages to fashion them out of whatever he can – Legos, sticks, asparagus (seriously).

Me: What do you need a gun for? This is a peace-loving house.
E: Well, when I grow up I’m going to be in the army and fight in a war!
(I didn't have the heart to tell him that there is no way in hell I am going to let my baby join the army. Or ride a motorcycle. Or play football. So I decided to humor him.)
Me: Well, maybe when you grow up there will be no wars. Instead you can be in the army to help people – like if there’s a flood.
E: (with the gun aimed up to the sky) So then I can shoot the water down!

There go all my hopes for raising a triple-threat Broadway star.

Here's another instance that had me simultaneously laughing and reaching for the Spiderman band-aids:

A friend and I were out to dinner with E and her daughter. This mom had been thinking about organizing a neighborhood track club and hiring a coach for the kids. "What do you think?" she asked them, "Doesn't that sound like fun? You'll learn how to pole vault and jump hurdles too."

"Nah," countered my progeny, "What I really want to do is have someone teach me how to ride my bicycle high up a ramp. Then when I'm mid-air, spin around a bunch of times before I land on the ground."

My friend looked at me. I shrugged my shoulders. I also bit my lip since I was tempted to ask if you could do those kinds of tricks with training wheels. While the testosterone surges are so new and fragile, I should probably be gentle with them. But when his voice deepens, I might be a little less merciful.

E used to mostly have play dates with girls. That boy loved a good makeover. (He once protested when I insisted on taking his mascara off before bed. "But if I don't, you'll wake up in the morning with wrinkles," I explained.) In fact, a mere two years ago what he really wanted Santa (or Hanukah Harry — take your pick) to bring him was a Barbie style head. You know, the eerily decapitated face that you do the hair and makeup on to your heart’s content. Nothing made him happier that touching other people's hair. It was cute, however I think all my dreams for a celebrity hairdresser in the family are gone with the wind. He wants his next birthday party to be robber-themed – everyone has to wear stripes and carry around little bags of money. I'm guessing that Evite probably does not make an invitation for that.

This is a boy who once told me, "Cinderella is my favorite lady." Now it's all about Darth Vader and Luke, Transformers and battle droids, and who knows what else. (Admittedly I sometimes tune out the discussions of the intricacies of the Skywalker family tree as I peruse Yoga Journal.) He even posted a sign on his bedroom door that says, "I hate pink, Barbies, and lipstick." Okay, mister, you just wait. Wait until I tell your first girlfriend that after I got the book Pinkalicious for a classmate’s birthday, I had to buy another copy just for you because you got all weepy that it was going to be given away.

I am pleased that I manage to sneak in "enlightened" behavior every now and then. Since E and I are the only ones in the apartment, he is my fashion judge and jury. Yes, it's true — I often ask someone under five feet tall which shoes look better. He's good too. We were shopping in Target a year ago and I couldn't resist a little flowered tank top. I picked up a pink one and his little voice from the shopping cart said, "Take the green." I did and have gotten compliments on it ever since. I will consider it a crowning achievement if he is still helping me decide which clothes to wear when his pant legs are longer than mine.

E had his first sleepover here last week and that’s when I realized that the inherent boy-ness of these kids delights me. E and his friend played Quidditch, built forts and challenged each other as to who could get more salsa and/or sour cream on a single tortilla chip. They loved every minute of it. So did I.

When I was pregnant I went for the surprise. Even though I didn’t know the gender, I knew. In my heart of hearts, I knew my baby was a boy. And I was right. And even though I have no idea what I'm going to do when he's fifteen, taller than me, and devouring everything in the fridge, I wouldn't want it any different. It’s me and E — mama and boy — together.

Now, if you'll excuse me, the camp bus is pulling up. I have to make a snack, take out the light saber and get the Captain Underpants book off the shelf. My boy is home.

Author: Stacey Linden