Bad Parent: The Little Man
I wanted a girl, but I got a boy - and how.
by Ondine Galsworth
May 29, 2008
And yes, it's kind of scary. The sound is deep and manly and menacing. It never ceases to surprise me when my cuddly, Dora the Explorer-loving, teddy bear-hugging, Goldfish-eating toddler turns into the Incredible Hulk. We, his bumbling and inexperienced parents, have been wondering what the hell happened to our sweet child, now the maddest baby in New Jersey.
He just gets so puffed up and indignant at the lack of cooperation the WetVac is giving him. He'll drag it across the room towards me, hand me the hose, and make a deep throaty sound as if to say, "Make this work, Mommy, or I'll go postal." He hates when things don't work. He curses in baby language, and like many men when they're trying to fix things around the house and can't, he kicks the object in question as if to punish it.
Baffled, his father and I kiss him, hug him and give him organic sweet potatoes. We theorize on the cause of this angry sound: He's teething. He has to poop. He's thirsty. He's starving to death. He swallowed a guitar pick. It's the mosquito bites. Or maybe he just hates our guts.
I used to think it was sexist to expect a major difference between little girls and little boys.
This may sound ridiculous, but before I had a child, I honestly always believed that if you treated children the same, their behavior would not indicate their sex. Even though most of my friends had children way before I did, and all of them said that boys behaved differently from girls, I still thought it was sexist to expect a major difference between little girls and little boys.
But now — especially since yesterday's music class, when all the other kids were sitting in a circle playing with their maracas and tambourines and my son stampeded up and down the room like King Kong until he belly-slid into the wall — I'm a believer. Boys are different: tornados of dirt, aggression and passion. Girls are okay, I guess. Boone seems to like them. He kisses them every day at the childcare at the gym, where he's known as "Ladies' Man."
Being a boy is hard on him sometimes. The fits of frustration can go on for hours, until he's throwing himself at my feet, defeated and whimpering. He's lost a battle. What battle I'm not sure, but now he's sad, beaten, walking around flapping his arms like Woody Allen. "What's wrong, little man?" I ask my exasperated son. I get on my knees, channeling Jane Goodall, so I can get down to my young primate's eye level and study his behavior more closely. From the kitchen floor, I observe his little shoulders going up around his ears. He lets out a sigh as if to say, "Man, this king of jungle stuff is hard!"
I can't believe I ever didn't want a boy. Like any mother, I just love everything about my baby, including his sex.
Article photo: Jennifer Carter
©2008 Ondine Galsworth and Nerve Media
About the Author
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Ondine Galsworth is working on a novel about her experiences as a go-go dancer
and a book about her new addiction, the rodeo. A New York native, she now lives in
New Jersey.
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