Benjamin Penguin

I like love having a little boy. I’m not sure where this post is coming from, but I think it stems from a conversation I had with an acquaintance recently. This person had a little girl and has another (unknown gender as of yet) baby on the way. She mentioned that when she found out she was having a little girl, she cried a few tears of relief because the thought of having a little boy scared her very, very much. I thought this was interesting and I asked her to explain. She stated that she was such a girly girl herself that she would be unsure of how to relate to a little boy. She also believed she would not have as much fun with a little boy because while she would want to color and paint with her child, a little boy would assuredly want to spend most of the time ripping the paper to shreds. Having a little boy, I think this might be very true. Her message was clear, though. How in the hell could I live with something so wild? And perhaps the more subtle statement: How will I control that thing?

It was an interesting conversation – one that made me reflect upon my role as the mother of a son. I have little reference in terms of what to expect from little boy and little girl children. I was simply never around children of either variety growing up. My friends didn’t have little kids, relatives didn’t have little kids, neighbors did not have little kids. Everything I know about little boys I am learning in the moment as I raise Benjamin.

But there are some things that I am observing. Things that make me take pause and, on my more critical days, feel frustrating and just a touch unfair. I think that little boys, and by extension the mothers of said little boys, are judged by a much harsher, much less lenient measure than little girls (and little girl’s mamas). When my son is in public and gets a little loud and a little antsy and a little, errr, runny (my newly created one-word term designed to encapsulate that inability of a toddler child to stand. still. ever.), he is looked at in a much different way than when a little girl gets loud and antsy and runny. I’ve seen it. I’ve seen more of a tendency toward furrowed brows and pursed lips and those obvious (and sometimes exaggerated) glances from the child to me to the child and then back to me, as if I am somehow able to control the whirling vortex before me. I can, to some extent, but no more than any other parent of a toddler is able to do. It’s as if people want to say, “Look we all know that boys will be boys, but why do they have to be such animals?” I think people are just less patient around little boys. I don’t know if it says something about how we view males, how we view females, or both. If the lesson to be learned is that a toddler acting out is neither tolerable nor acceptable, but it is worse from a boy, what is this teaching our boys? That we don’t really want you to indulge yourself in the fullest range of your “self” – your highs and your lows and your joy and your vitality and your frustration and your anger? Because that’s what it feels like to me. I think it is viewed as somehow threatening – something to be carefully controlled -  and the end result is that, from a very early age, we encourage our boys to put a damper on their outward expression of energy and emotion.

I think we worry a lot about the socialization of young girls in this country. As we should. They are sexualized and adultified at younger and younger ages. They are certainly not the “weaker sex,” but there are differences in socialization, in biology and certainly in the distribution of power that can put them at a disadvantage when growing up. I appreciate this. I was a girl, then an adolescent female, and now an adult woman. I also consider myself a feminist, and have for many, many years. But having a little boy, indeed even preparing for his birth upon finding out I was having a boy, forced me to really change my feminist mindset. My understanding of feminism has been in constant flux throughout my life. As I gained new insights, my understanding would change and I would recreate a new, more inclusive definition for myself. And I was never a separatist feminist to begin with. I like men and their contributions to the world. I also see areas for much-needed improvement. But we sell our boys short when we make the assumption that socialization into gender roles negatively impacts ONLY the young girls.  In the tamping down of that brilliant display of emotion and passion in our young boys, we are doing them a great disservice.

My son is this remarkable little character. He is silly and funny and happy. And then, as if turning on a dime, he is angry and frustrated and stubborn. Of course he is. He is a toddler. But he is also a human and such is the nature of humanity. We are complex. We have mood swings. If left to flourish, we can love to great depths, live to great heights and bask in the joy of being, moving, experiencing and connecting to other people. Except, of course, that we don’t really encourage this in our boys, and certainly not in our men. It’s a shame, really.

So, I’ve made a decision. It is not appropriate to scream in a post office, and I’ll gladly step in and tone it down a notch there because I do believe that to be responsible parenting. It is also not appropriate to run in circles around other patrons’ tables in a restaurant and I’ll be more than happy to take the child outside for a much needed moment of calming down. You get the idea. But if you see us in the park and my son is running and screaming and pounding on the metal benches by the ball field and his outward display of exuberance bothers you, please just keep on walking by and let us enjoy ourselves. If my son cries, I will pat down his tears, but I’ll let him cry. If he laughs, I’ll laugh with him. And when he says I love you and wants a kiss, you’d better believe I’ll be the first to drop to my knees and indulge in a wonderful moment. Or get on my tippy toes and look skyward, as I have a feeling this one is gonna be a tall drink of water in his teens.

Yesterday, Ben, Adam and I went to a diner that featured trains. There was a large model train greeting you upon your entrance. There was a train riding along the top of the wall, circling the restaurant entirely. And on the counter there was, you guessed it, a train. A train that delivers your meal to you. The songs playing on the overhead speakers are all children’s songs relating to trains.

Please step into the wayback machine with me for a moment. I think this will be fun. Starting at the tail end of my freshman year in high school, I entered a goth phase. For those not in the know, it necessitated the wearing of superbad spiderweb tights, black baby doll dresses, a black motorcycle jacket, Doc Martens, black eyeliner and black cherry lipstick. LOTS of black cherry lipstick.  It involved melodramatic poetry about darkness and despair and intricate handwriting with elaborate curls at the end of every letter. It was fabulous in a way that only adolescents with an faux existential crisis can be. I look back on that time with three parts fondness and one part embarrassment because really, the middle class white girl ennui is just a touch silly. But I share this story not so that we can all have a little giggle at my expense. Though, feel free to do so. I am remarkably centered and sure of myself in these past 5 or so years. No, I share this story because I can say, without a doubt, that the 14-year-old me that delicately and carefully applied baby powder to her face during the spring of 1990 so as to take on a more pale and consumptive pallor would never, ever, never imagine herself in a train-themed diner, clapping along excitedly to a song with the lyrics “Happy little choo choo.” Wearing a shirt from Old Navy, fer chrissakes.

Come on, that’s funny.

The thing is, I remember my fear of having children when I was younger because I was worried that I would turn into that woman. I didn’t have a problem with her, I just didn’t want to be her because how artsy and avant garde is that? Answer: Not at all. But once I had Ben, none of that seemed to matter any more. I think age helped as well – maturing has this wonderful tendency to make you feel increasingly welcome in your own skin.  I can’t deny, however, that it was Ben that really prompted me to let go of those last little adolescent concerns: the fear of a waning hipness. There are people that do still try to cling to that period; that expanse of years between ages 15-25  when we are at our most cool. Well, the coolest we, as an individual, can ever hope to be. I see them now as parents and I feel bad for them and for their kids sometimes because I think that it would be refreshing for them to occasionally be dorky and silly and lame. I’ve also seen people that swing too far in the other direction and seem locked in some perpetual state of peppy childhood. These parents sometimes feel overbearing and just too much.

I view my life through a rather biased lens, but I think I’ve been able to find a middle ground. I am still me. I still have that inner state of self-defined cool that prompts me to select a more outlandish shirt over the more sedate beige. I like my hair to be a little funky. I have my tattoos. But I am also able to laugh and sing and clap along with a train song. I’d like to think that over the years, as Ben grows, he’ll see that I was willing to change myself for him and that I am changed by him. That I take pride in being a mother and that it is a title I cherish and no longer fear. So, if you feel so inclined, join me at the counter and let go with a hearty “choo choo!” We’ll feel silly together and it will be marvelous.