The whimper heard coast to coast somewhere mid summer this year was me, the last holdout of 70’s feminism, finally giving up on the belief that boys and girls, raised the same, will turn out the same. I give up. It’s just not true. To wit:
- I can believe that a hundred monkeys with a hundred typewriters will produce King Lear more easily than I can believe two little girls would come up with the game “Commando Teddies.” In this game, the boys tie ropes around the waists of their teddy bears, shout “Teddy Bears, do your job,” and hurl them over the railing of our loft into the faces of unsuspecting folks in the living room below. The first time they played this game, I was interviewing a nanny candidate. As I tried to convince her that I was a business like, rational being, that our home was serene and calm, Teddy Bears kept swinging down in large arcs behind her head.
- Little girls would not, after being exposed to the evening news and Home Alone 11, invent ways to set Sadaam Hussain’s bottom on fire.
- Little girls would not turn our marble floored, mirror walled foyer into a hockey rink.
- Little girls do not ask about every man they see in a magazine, “Does he kill people?” and, if the answer is “yes,” shout “Awesome.”
These things happen in our house, and I swear, WE DIDN’T DO IT. We have lavished the same tenderness, affection, and sensitivity on these boys that we would have on girls. We still read them Tales of Peter Rabbit, we’ve never told them boys don’t cry, but instead of Little Men, we have something more akin to Lord of the Flies.
Another discovery that Allan and I made this summer was that the truism is true one boy plus one boy equals the noise and activity of five boys. We discovered this when we decided to each take one boy on a separate trip. Not only did we each end up with one well mannered offspring, we ourselves changed from irrational ultimatum shouting monsters into patient, reasoning parents. I’m proposing a system where we buy two houses and split up the family into rotating combinations of two. I’m sure that with proper planning it could work.
Sam is doing well in second grade. He has caring teachers who understand the challenges of Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, for which we are grateful. His own understanding of his disorder is rather astute. He and Allan were at a hockey game when one of the players ran amuck (not an unusual occurrence, I gather). His reaction “Dad, maybe he forgot his Ritalin.” He’s had some rough times lately with seemingly unending medical tests to determine the reasons for his slow growth. We now have a definitive diagnosis he is growth hormone deficient ¬and he will soon be starting nightly injections. He and I compare tests and punch marks on our arms.
As Allan describes it (giving credit to Dave Barry), Max (now almost 5) maintains his position in the household by talking in capital letters: “I’M NOT HAPPY! ” “WHO’S GOING TO GET MY SNACK?” “SAM HIT ME!” He’s recently developed a strong Puritanical streak and has taken to bursting into rooms where Allan and I are sitting shouting, “STOP THAT KISSING!” Would that our ardor matched his imagination.
My news is all good. I haven’t needed chemotherapy for sixteen months. While my doctor is reluctant to call it a remission, the fact is that my tumors have shrunk from where they were three years ago, and they’re not doing anything. We cautiously call it a partial remission, and knock wood every chance we get.
A little over a year ago I admitted that I always wanted to write fiction; and, despite great fear of failure, I started a writing class. I now officially call myself a writer. To prove my worthiness of the title, I have rejection letters from several journals and 185 pages of a currently discarded novel. Each week, I attend a writing class, sit in on a large writers’ group, and work with a small group of friends. I’m dedicated to what I’m doing, and I’m happy with the progress I’m making.
As we prepare for a very non traditional Christmas (We leave Christmas Eve morning for Club Med in Ixtapa. It’s the only way we could take a winter vacation without taking Sam out of school.), we send best wishes and love to our friends.
Happy holidays,
