Sweet, Little Boys and Dangerous Men

…And Assorted Armpit Anecdotes

For the better part of a year, my son has begged for math questions at bedtime. He doesn’t want to talk about his day or his dreams, he wants me to ask him math. Go figure. But recently, he’s been dividing his precious cuddle time between math and “funny stories that are real.” It all started with a story about him as a baby, the one when he and his brother, not yet 2, stole an entire carton of eggs and tried to break them into Tupperware, then, while I was trying to flip pancakes and clean up egg, they raced into the living room and started flinging ash out of the fireplace with pieces of kindling. As I raced to secure the fireplace, the boys raced to dump the dogs’ water dish. This was my introduction to babies who could run. This story is an old standard for moms’ social stand-up routine, but it was new and hilarious to D. Now, my brain spends it’s daytime subconscious energy searching for funny stories for bedtime. Last night I reminded him how he used his potty (before he knew what it was for) as a hiding place for colorful carnival necklaces. He giggled and laughed with no memory of himself as that kid. What feels like yesterday to me is a different lifetime for him.

As far as different lifetimes go, we are getting whiff of the next big phase in our house: adolescence. I wish I could be better prepared instead of always being caught by surprise when the boys change. The boys are seven, so it’s just enough to scare everyone. We scare them with stories of body hair and smelly armpits, having to bathe every single day, and lectures about how it’s ILLEGAL to touch a person in their privates. They scare us with swearwords, big-boy farts and bigger-boy attitude.

L: Hey Mom! Smell my armpit!
Me: No…
L: Hey Bro! Smell my armpit!
D: Okay! — It smells like popcorn!! Does mine smell like popcorn?
L: No…. something not as good… yours smells like… Gum!!

They are still so innocent. But, recently, in a public space, my 7-year-old put a hand down my shirt, and I reacted with a less-than-graceful rejection. This caused an epiphany. How many babies grow up with unfettered access to the physical comforts of mom only to be unceremoniously cast out when they cross a line into boyhood? As I watch America’s dark underbelly get exposed in the news, I’m struck in particular by a number of men who act like entitled, violent ignoramuses. Who raised them?? Could there be anything that reflects more the conflict between a mother and son than men’s secret “locker room talk?” This is to say, I’m thinking a lot about the disconnect between sweet little boys and dangerous men. How do the seeds of dominance, unchecked aggression, and entitlement of women’s bodies get planted? If attachment parenting is as natural to you as it is to me, babies nurse and cuddle skin-to-skin. They sleep on mom, climb on mom… jump on, nuzzle, motor-boat, maul, and rail against mom. Before they learned not to hit or bite others, my babies worked those lessons on me. We teach them to be gentle, to wrestle without harming, NOT to jump on people with their knees. As they become aware, we teach them not to touch others in private places. In our house, unlike the other lessons, this one quickly turns into a lecture about respect. It’s easy to forget how everything is a test at this age, and the reason they will say and do all manner of inappropriate things is because we have awesomely made it safe for them to make mistakes. An inappropriate touch is often from an impulse as innocent as kicking a ball across the kitchen.

 

When is it exactly no longer appropriate for the boys to have the same access to me they’ve had since birth? As they become more aware of personal boundaries, saying no feels less instructional and more confrontational. They demand what they’re accustomed to, climbing or jumping on me (especially if I’m not looking.) I have to find my way from being a mom to babies, which requires openness, softness and constant availability, to being a mom of boys, which requires a different sort of attention, the hardness of setting boundaries, and the training of respect. How many boys have gone through this change in a harsh and sudden way without understanding it? How much does this process, if messed up, play into boys becoming men with a twisted sense of entitlement to women’s bodies? How many chances do I have to get it right?  

I joke that as parents, we fly by the seat of our pants. It’s easy to be consumed by just getting everyone dressed and fed. There is no time to process the politics of dominance when school starts in 2 minutes. My kid told me this morning, as if it were a revelation, that his bad mood was completely my fault for taking away tomorrow’s MineCraft time when he didn’t get dressed before the timer went off. After school, the other kid swung his jacket around so it hit me, then picked up something off the ground and threw it at me, because I wouldn’t let him stay after school to play. I wonder which combination of reactions by me will teach them self-control, empathy, respect and yet validate their feelings. Real anger flares, and I wonder how much of it is valuable to show. So many questions come up in lieu of answers.
What is an appropriate way for the kids to express anger? How many moms don’t listen, invalidate their kids’ anger, enforce rules sporadically, or bribe their kids into behaving? How many moms pass the hard lessons off on dad, on partners, or on caregivers? How many men are aggressive (or passive-aggressive) towards women due to unresolved anger at mom? Where do I fall? The judge analyzes everything, but the jury is never really in when it comes to assessing parenting. I could tell the kid who got in trouble for lashing out when he couldn’t play after school felt badly because he was extra sweet to me later. Did my rant work? But he lashed out again when he didn’t like breakfast today. I am a broken record of shock & awe tactics with a broken will to cook for the ingratiate and a broken heart because he thinks I wrecked his day yet again.

Seeking simpler answers, I compare the moments that make a life to see how they stack up. Does kindness win? Are the boys respectful more often than not? Do they learn from mistakes? If I’ve yelled at them, have I balanced things with quality time and cuddling? Have we made up or just moved on? I feel very lucky that the boys are, actually, overall, nice people. I don’t claim a hand in that- I think they were born that way. I think most people are born that way. My job is to help them stay that way. What I can’t quite understand is an age-old dilemma between parents and their kids. I think I’m teaching things like how to manage anger and time, but to kids it feels like their soul is being crushed. I find myself trying to avert blame. “I’m not the one who is making you go to school! It’s illegal not to!” or “I’ll still love you if you’re stinky and dirty, but other people won’t want to be near you. You’re not bathing for me!”
It all feels a bit manipulative. When asked what he wanted to be when he grew up, L said, “A nice person.” He explained that means someone who doesn’t steal or tell on people. Well, there’s a start. After the scramble of collecting candy during a piñata party recently, D came away with two large cups full. All of the other kids had only one cup, and one small 2-year-old girl was crying because she had none. She hadn’t even known to get a cup. D walked over, and gave the girl an entire cup of candy. I’ll focus on his incredible, spontaneous generosity and sweetness rather than question how he managed to get two cups of candy in the first place. Both boys have reciprocity, genuine empathy, and a sweetness that breaks my heart. An honest kiss from either of them is heaven. With a child’s infinite wisdom, D gave me a way through this rough patch. He is asking for funny, true stories every chance he gets. Telling the boys about themselves as babies is a fabulous way to reconnect, to hear them laugh, to get them to actually speak and ask questions, for me to remember how much I adore them, and for them to feel adored.

Tonight, I’ll tell D about how, before they could talk, whenever he and his brother heard Bruno Mars sing, “Locked Out Of Heaven,” they would dissolve in laughter when the background vocals sounded like someone being punched in the gut. I’ll tell him again about the time L cut his finger rather badly, and I had L on the bathroom counter with the finger wrapped in a paper towel. D was on the counter, too, in order to for me keep him close. (They were small enough to both be on the bathroom counter. Imagine!) I was holding L’s hand up over his head to stop the bleeding, and D was like, “ARMPIT! I know what that’s for!” (Not that he could talk.) So, he went into my drawer, got the deodorant, and put some on L. Smart kid.

Turns out the one who lost his MineCraft time the other day was angry with me because he thought I wasn’t fair. He couldn’t get his pants on because the button was stuck. He very calmly told me, twice, that it was my fault he ran out of time to get dressed because I’m the one who laid out those pants for him to wear. I realize he felt like, since I laid the pants out, he was beholden to them. The first time he brought it up, we were still trying to get out the door. I gave him a lecture on the bigger picture- how he needed to get started earlier, which requires going to bed on time, that he could have grabbed different pants, etc…  The second time he brought it up, I told him I’d think about it. Will relenting teach the value of being heard, and reward the more acceptable expression of anger, or will it create an unpredictable boundary, leading to all sorts of hellish behavior? I think that depends on the kid. If I choose wrong, I’ll adjust. It seems impossible that these sweet little boys could ever be dangerous men. Remember, people, there is no one moment that will determine who they become, it’s all the moments that make a life.