Recently in mothering boys Category

Today Liam turned nine. Nine!  And I thought that as a special treat, I would let you eavesdrop on a recent (and typical) walk to school. 

Liam's mind works in wild, whirling circles; he synthesizes minutiae and detail like a cross between JRR Tolkien and Dustin Hoffman in "Rain Man." Like Dustin Hoffman's character, Liam frequently doesn't really conversate; he just wants you to appreciate the ideas being downloaded from his brain.

Nothing deters Liam from his narrative, once he gets going--not sirens, brakes, stop lights, whining little brothers, barking dogs--he just keeps talking. He may have a bright future as an auctioneer.

We leave our building and he's off:
--So I'm inventing this game and the first level will be Artic Explorer...no...wait, Artic Conqueror. Yeah. Conqueror.
--Uh-huh, that's a good word.  Do I need to stop at Trader Joe's for milk or will the line be too long by the time I get back from school
--And that level gets you twenty million points that you can use to get the equipment you need in order to defeat the malevolent invader from the east, because you need an ice ax that emits poison elemental gas when you swing it and then after that level you become an Artic Mage
--Mage, huh? Serious stuff did I answer that student's email about her thesis and should I circulate that document via email before Thursday's meeting and should I email the editor to see if she's got the deadline... 
--But with wizarding abilities... No...no...actually, you need to have the wizarding abilities first, I think, so that then you can strategize to combat the fire-breathing dragons that emerge from the ice... But then when you get to the level where you can enter the melee school of combat training--

I jolt out of my to-do list: Did you just say melee school of combat training?  that's really funny-

--yeah, I know, so after you've trained for three levels you can earn the crossbow of artic death...
--Artic death, sure don't forget the dry cleaning

And so it goes: quality time with my son. We have mornings like this a lot--just me, Liam, and whatever game Liam is inventing.  I don't think he knows that I'm only barely listening but maybe this is one of those times where the listening itself doesn't really matter. What matters is that he wants me there to listen to his tales--and now that he's nine, I hear the clock ticking louder, counting down the days until I become so uncool that he cannot possibly be seen with me.  

So until that day comes, bring on the Arctic conquerors, wizarding mages, poison-emitting ice axes, and training at the melee school of combat training: I'm all ears.

I thought I'd dodged a bullet. I thought Liam's question about "why does a mommy have another baby" question was only a thinly veiled complaint: why did you visit this fresh hell called Caleb on my heretofore idyllic existence?

I was wrong. I hadn't dodged a bullet, I'd only delayed being hit. After I told him that people often had more than one child and that sometimes only children were lonely, he got to the heart of things:

Liam: How? How does the baby get inside her?

Me (dammit): Well, the woman has eggs inside her--

Liam, hysterically laughing: Like she's a chicken?

Me: Well, no, not with a shell or anything.

L: Wouldn't that be funny if in a million years or so there were invaders from space and they ate only human eggs, wouldn't that be funny? I mean, sort of funny but really pretty bad, too?

Me: Funny? I don't know about that -
 
L: Where is the egg?

Me (deep breath): In the uterus, which is inside the woman, sort of lower than her tummy--

L: What's a woombah?

Me: What? Oh, a w-o-m-b?

I explain--very briefly--that wombs and uteruses (uteri?) are both part of the baby-growing process, and realize that my knowledge of my own anatomy is shockingly--shockingly--vague.

Liam: What happens to the egg?

Me (persistent little bugger, isn't he?):  Well, the egg is fertilized with sperm from a man and then the baby grows inside. 

Wait for it, wait for it...

Liam: How?

Shit ... here we go...

Me: Well, when the people love each other very much it can feel very good to be close to each other and then sometimes they decide to make a baby together, but not always. 

Yes, yes, that's right, I did a TOTAL END RUN around the key details.

Liam, thoughtful, sinks under the water in the tub and blows some bubbles. Emerges: Where does the sperm come from?

I am exhausted. This is the longest bath ever in the history of baths. 

Me:  It comes from a man's penis--

Liam, panicked: WHAT?? WHAT DO YOU MEAN???

Me (confused): Well, sperm is inside the man's body, when you get older, and it comes out - sort of like pee, you know?

Liam, calmer: Oh. Okay. I thought you had to get it off the penis or cut the penis off or something-

Nice job, mom. let's get that therapist lined up, shall we? Can you say castration anxiety?

Me: No, no, when you're older--then you'll have sperm. And sometimes it will come out even when you're sleeping, like during a dream. It's just part of your body getting ready to be a grownup.

This detail led to some technical discussion about penile plumbing that I shan't go into here--suffice it to say that there were analogies to garden hoses without water and garden hoses with water, and then we pressed onward, into literally murkier waters (it was a LONG bath).

Liam, laughing: What if you don't have an egg? Do you get a mad scientist to concoct one?

Me: Well, actually, yes--I mean, not a mad scientist but--

Liam: Wow. Do you need a man and a woman to have a baby?

Me: Um...you need the sperm, but that can happen in lots of different ways. So if a man loves a man, or a woman loves a woman, or a man and a woman love each other, they can have a baby; or if just a man or just a woman want to have a baby, that can happen too. 

(Desperately inventorying all the families we know: have I included all the various permutations of parenthood and familyhood? This conversation was a hell of a lot easier in the Betty Draper era, when families pretty much came in only one basic model.)

Liam finally climbs out of the bath, demurely covering himself in a towel. I take a deep breath, figuring we're on the other side of the difficult bits of the conversation.

Liam: Mommy? What does gay mean?

You're killing me, kid. I explain what gay means and then say that people often use the word as an insult and he nods, names a kid who is a bit of a bully and uses the word all the time, to be nasty.

Liam: But why would anyone care about gayness, mommy?

Me: I don't know, sweetie, they just do.

Liam: I think I would like to have a baby. When I'm older, I mean. I mean, kids are fun, right?

Me: Mmmm, yep, just loads of fun.  

Liam leans close to me and I reach to hug him, sure that he's feeling all listened to and supported and understood after our Deep and Important Conversation.

Mommy, he whispers, can I use the computer now?

I knew it was coming. There'd been some observations, a comment or two...things were definitely percolating in his almost-nine-year old head. In preparation, I  had gotten a book or two from the library, asked friends how they'd handled it.  I wanted to be ready - but then, just like death after a long illness, when it actually happened I wasn't really ready at all.

There we were, at the dermatologist's office, having her look at some skin discolorations on Liam's face, and while she was checking something in her computer, Liam popped the question, with no introductory remarks, no prefatory throat clearing, just jumped in:

So how does a woman get a baby inside her?

I saw the doctor's head swivel towards me, then back to her computer, and it occurred to me that I could just punt: ask her to answer the question.  She is, after all the medical professional, and maybe she could even pull out a few charts and an anatomically correct mannequin.

But no, no, that wouldn't do.  We're supposed to, you know, be all patient and wise about this stuff, right?  I'm not supposed to let on that the very thought of my child--that sweet little body--getting all sexed up makes me want to cringe--and collapse in wild laughter. So I just said that when we were somewhere more private, I'd be glad to answer that question and we went on with the dermatologist visit.  And I can't swear to it, but I swear I heard the doctor chuckling as she left the examination room.

A week or so passed and I thought maybe The Question had gotten buried under homework and soccer practice and what-to-be-for-Halloween, but then one night when Liam was in the bath:

So mom, remember that question I asked you at the doctor's office?

I nod, knowing what's coming.

L: What's the answer?

I feint: "well, what do you know? What have you heard about how this happens?"

Liam: Nothing. I mean, basically nothing.

Me, following the instructions I read about in a really useful book called From Diapers to Dating (thanks, Carolyn, for the suggestion): so you want to know how a woman gets a baby inside her?

Liam: Well, I mean, once a woman has a baby, why would she have another one?

Fabulous, I think. We're not dealing with actual SEX here, we're just dealing with sibling rivalry. Piece o'cake.  I mouth a few platitudes about people liking to have a big family, and about how having a sibling can mean that you've always got someone to play with, even if they're sometimes aggravating, and so you don't have to be lonely--
 
Liam: So that's why anyone who is an only child has a gameboy, right? 

I nod, sure that I've dodged the sex-talk bullet.  But there is more to come, my friends, more to come.  It was a very long bath.

Today my doe-eyed, almost five-year-old boy was compared to Luca Brasi. You know, the Godfather's enforcer, the one who only takes orders from Don Corleone, and who ends up sleeping with the fishes. Yeah, that guy.

True, Caleb has not yet capped anyone, and as far as I know, he's left no horse parts in anyone's cubby, but apparently, according to the head teacher at Caleb's day camp, Caleb seems to go along with whichever strong-willed boy is currently calling the shots. This teacher noticed that Caleb is sought after by these bossier classmates, in part because he seems willing to play the role of second banana. "You know," she said, "sort of like Ed McMahon."

Great. So it's 9:15 in the morning and my child is being compared to a guy whose success in life was knowing when to laugh at someone else's jokes.

This completely unsolicited conversation happened just after I'd said good-bye to Caleb at the door of the art room. I'm soaking wet because it's raining as if it's the second coming of Noah; Liam isn't at soccer camp because he's got a doctor's appointment, so he's home alone, hopefully not setting fires or downloading porn; Husband is on day six of an eight-day business trip, and did I mention that it's pouring?

(Full disclosure: when Husband decided to go to this conference in London, his charming wife suggested that he go for a few extra days to visit with his elderly aunt who lives in London, and to see a long-time friend, who also lives there. "We'll be fine," I said, "don't worry about it." This was before I realized that my younger son was a Made Guy and before I fully understood what it meant to be a solo parent for more than a week. I bow down before all single parents, who never have the chance to say "not right now, let Other Parent get your milk/read your story/ wash your hair/find that goddamn lego." But I digress.)

In short, on this particular morning, I am in no way equipped to hear that my second child seems to have fully internalized his second-childness and delightedly abdicates his own (nascent) moral compass in favor of Being Told What To Do. Keep in mind, however, that when his older brother tells him what to do, the accusations of BOSSY and UNFAIR ring through the apartment with clarion clarity.

I asked Teacher if following these other boys ever got Caleb into trouble - and that's where Luca Brasi came in. Caleb gets caught up in whatever turf battle is being waged between other boys, it seems, just like Luca did, resulting in the kindergartner's version of swims with fishes: A Talking To By The Teacher.

The other day, for example, Caleb, following the lead of G., was teasing E. about something they had that he didn't. E. had a complete meltdown (thus rendering him unfit to serve on the Supreme Court, but again, I digress). Teacher takes G. and Caleb aside, tells them they weren't being very nice, and that both of them are smart enough to know that what they did would upset E.  Caleb looks at her and said, "I'm not that smart."

His answer cracks me up because it's so smart: after all, you can't blame him for doing something on purpose if he's telling you that he's not smart enough to have done it on purpose. And his answer makes me sad because he so readily described himself as inadequate.

After delivering her commentary, Teacher gave me a hug (she's that kind of person) and I trudged home through the rain. What do you do with conversations like this? I mean, this isn't the crazy lady at the bus stop muttering that your kid should be wearing a hat. This is a woman who has seen my kid five days a week, six hours a day, for about a month. She knows Caleb in ways that I don't, so as I splashed home, I wondered if when she looked at me, she was all, "oh, wow, you've totally done a number on this one, lady."

Is Caleb doomed to be second fiddle, second banana, second string? Does he already assume that he never gets shotgun when he's old enough to sit in the front seat? Does he let other kids tell him what to do because we've failed him in some essential way, already? I mean, I am completely willing to admit that I might have failed as a parent; I was just hoping not to have to reach that verdict until the kids were, you know, maybe sixteen or seventeen.

Birth order's a bitch, I guess: I'm the oldest, so I think of myself as having been replaced not once but twice (first by a brother, then a sister). My brother is the only boy - both a blessing and a curse - and my sister grew up in two very long shadows. As a friend once said to me, siblings don't actually grow up in the same family. Which is why, of course, belonging to a family is enough to drive anyone crazy.

I guess the question for me is how keep the second son from feeling like he's always in second place.

 Clearly this is where Mamma Brasi went wrong with little Luca.  

Liam (getting out of the shower): Mommy, can I tell you something?

Mommy (ears pricking up lest she miss An Important Mother-Son Moment): Sure, anything.

Liam (looking at mommy sideways to gauge her reaction): Today, at Barnes and Noble, in the magazine section, I saw a magazine with a lady on the cover who was ... completely naked.

Mommy (aware of the potential irony of this conversation occurring while she is drying off her son's naked post-shower body): Really. Hmmm ... So what did you think about that? 

Liam: It was weird, Mommy. And there were other magazines like that, too and I saw -

Mommy: You saw her breasts and -

Liam (giggling): and everything. And I saw another magazine that said "hot guys inside" and had a picture of a guy with no shirt on.

Mommy (wishing that the magazine racks were higher off the ground or that her son didn't know how to read): What does "hot" mean, do you know?

Liam (striking a pose and flexing his muscles): it means really, really good looking. But this guy, I don't know mommy, he wasn't that hot. He had a big moustache and stuff.

Mommy (wondering when and why the 1970s 'stache came back into fashion and what, exactly, Liam means by "stuff"): Really. So hot means good-looking? But you didn't think this guy was good looking?

Liam: No. It was just weird. Why would someone want a magazine like that do you think?

Mommy: Well... I guess some people like to look at naked bodies. So they make magazines that they think people will buy.

Liam: Like they do with legos. Always making things so you want new stuff?

Mommy: Same idea, I guess, right.

Liam (pjs on, teeth brushed): Can I play Wii now?

Clearly, in the battle between "gadgets" and "naked" that rages constantly in the male brain, electronica is winning - at least for now. I wonder how much longer?

I haven't posted in a while, mostly because of the holidays, but also because I've been trying to learn a new language. Liam has found a new obsession, one that has (temporarily?) supplanted Pokemon and even Star Wars: Bakugan. Bakugan apparently started on the Cartoon Network and is aimed (like so much of television and the movies - Adam Sandler, anyone?) at ten year old boys, which to Liam is the age of ultimate sophistication. 

The Bakugan TV show exists, as near as I can tell, as a platform to sell toys, video games, trading cards, and web applications. The genius of the story rests in its complexity, the endless lists of minutiae that governs each and every character. Here is what I learned the other morning when I walked Liam to school: there is a Bakugan who has 700Gs, which is the most Gs but you can get more Gs if you use a Masquerade card and then you get 800Gs but then in a battle with Mantris you can actually increase to 1000Gs and that's the most you can ever get so you can win.

Actually, what Liam said was way more complicated than that, but as is the case when a middleish-aged person starts to learn a new language, I only caught about every other word.

Here are some tips from the Bakugan Strategy Corner that may help you see what a steep learning curve I've got ahead of me:

• There's no point in using Blaze, which only gives bonuses to Pyros, Aquos, and Ventos Bakugan if all your Bakugan are Haos!
  and
• The card Earth, Wind, and Fire combos nicely with Forest Fire. You let your opponent win that first battle, then on this battle, you'll get a bonus from the Gate Card along with an extra 100 G-Power as your opponent will have more Gate Cards, and ANOTHER extra 50-G because of Forest Fire!

Now, I know that Earth, Wind, and Fire can make a person's bootie shake like a house a-fire, but I don't think that's what's being described here. What is being described? Um...It's got something to do with rolling these little plastic balls onto cards that are magnetized and then the balls spring open into little figures while the players shout "bakugan brawl!" After the brawl, there is usually much shouting about rules and what is or is not fair. Then this process is repeated. And repeated.

All this rule-bound minutiae is obviously just training for what is to come: sports trivia (number of RBIs in a season, pitches thrown by left-handers in a playoff game, bases stolen by right-hand Dominican players with ponytails, etc). Or maybe sports trivia is simply compensation for lost youth: no grown man wants to be seen carrying around Bakugan balls or a Pokeman deck. But clearly the rules and details of these childhood games set up a template that will exclude the female equivalent: the minutiae of relationships: "I told you, they split up and now he's dating her ex-roommate and she hooked up with an old friend but didn't know that he'd also dated the ex-roommate and now she's furious at the roommate but the roommate doesn't think she's done anything wrong..."

It will come as no suprise at this point if I tell you that I'm not a fan of the games that Liam loves, just as I'm not a fan of sports trivia. I think it's all...dull. There. I said it. Boring, maybe even bordering on pointless. I don't get it. And I don't particularly want to get it. Yes, I cheer for the Mets (a pre-condition for marriage) and we go to the occasional baseball game, and I even usually learn the starting line-up (by the end of the summer). But that's about it.

As parents, of course, we all spend time doing things we don't want to do, and pretending we're interested when we're not (ever made a grocery list or compose an email while reading a bedtime story for the eight gazillionth time?). No one ever warns you about the boredom that accompanies so much of being a parent. It's not in any of the parenting books.

But Liam's love affair with Bakugan seems different, somehow, because now he's eight and seems more and more like ... like a boy, and not a child. His silly game gets wound up in my questions and fears about being the mother of a boy: how will I find common ground with him, as he grows up?

A few years ago, I saw a mother on the beach with her two sons, who looked to be in early adolescence. The three of them were playing lacrosse together - the boys clearly better than their mother - and they seemed to be having a good time. But watching them, I wondered if that mother would really rather be taking a long walk, or sitting in her lounge chair reading trashy novels, instead of dashing around on the sand shouting "good pass!"

Each time I found out that I was pregnant with a boy, I was amazed. It is a strange thing, if you think about it: I mean, tomatoes don't suddenly sprout, you know, beans or onions or some other non-tomato vegetable. But women give birth to...men. For clarity's sake, men should give birth to boys and women to girls; it's really the only logical system. Instead, I've given birth to this creature who shared everything with me for the first years of his life and now he walks by a table and flips the magazines on the floor, and when I ask him why, he just stares at me and shrugs.

The mother of boys. Sometimes I think I should start a support group for women without daughters - we can all call each other and chat, when we're in our late sixties, and ask one another all the questions that sons never do. My mother, by way of consolation, insists that boys treat their mothers like queens and while that may be true, that's not the type of relationship I'm looking for (unless the rest of the world would like to chime in and agree to crown me empress of the planet, in which case maybe we can work something out). 

Liam is, actually, not a very typical eight-year-old-boy - he cheerfully spent an hour tonight after dinner making a beaded necklace for himself, carefully selecting various shapes of pink beads. (And, yes, I realize that "normal" is a loaded word, but still, you know what I mean). But even so, he has that need to hurl self and others through space, and the inability to sit at the dinner table without tapping, chirping, drumming, whistling, gurgling...and, of course, the insatiable desire for tiny factoids that he can fit together into intricate schema that will become the winning strategy for The Game.

And his love for The Game makes me wonder: do I have to learn the language of Bakugan to stay close to my son?