This past weekend, we went to Disney and came to the conclusion that our son is a tremendous flirt. He is not just friendly, he’s an eight month old flirt. He bats eyelashes, smiles, acts all charming and then starts acting coy once he knows his audience is in the palm of his hand. His [...]
This past weekend, we went to Disney and came to the conclusion that our son is a tremendous flirt. He is not just friendly, he’s an eight month old flirt. He bats eyelashes, smiles, acts all charming and then starts acting coy once he knows his audience is in the palm of his hand. His behavior, in my opinion, is a far cry from the normal cutenesss that eight month olds foist on unsuspecting victims.
So, Tariq and I started discussing how this might play into his teenage personality. Because that’s who we are… big picture people.
I said flippantly, I hope this isn’t going to be a huge problem and he doesn’t try to be some cheesy gel covered Casanova when he’s sixteen.
My husband said, He better not. He better be a decent human being that respects women, or I’ll <something that may or may not warrant a call from child services>.
I love that about my husband. That his rules are the same. A daughter is not required to exhibit any more modesty, decency or self respect than a son. This is a big deal. It’s a testament to the way a man should raise a son and a daughter.
Too many times, I see people excuse sloppiness, bad manners, promiscuity or just plain hyperactive behavior citing that, well, he’s a boy, so it’s OK.
No, it’s not OK.
I understand and accept that gender and sex play important roles in child behavior, and I even accept that we must take into account that these factors exist when disciplining our kids.
Still, a value is a value, and if it’s important for your daughter, then it’s important for your son. In fact, I would go so far as to say that if you cannot raise your son to follow the rules that you may intend to impose on your daughters, then said values are flawed.
He can be a boy and have self respect and respect others.
He can be a boy and put things back where he picked them up.
He can be a boy and make his bed and wash his hands.
He can be a boy and not hit or fight or curse.
He can be a boy and still think about how what he says or does makes other people feel.
He can be a boy and be kind to people and have good manners.
These are not gender specific.
Of course, the boy, per Tariq’s rules, is still not allowed to play with any of his sister’s dolls, but, at least Tariq expects his son to behave within an equal set of parameters as his sister as defined by our personal family values.
What a lucky boy. What a lucky family.
It seems that no matter where we go as a family, a trip to some sort of museum always lands on the itinerary. I think I have more to do with that than I would like to admit, but I keep telling myself that my husband is secure enough in his masculinity to stare at [...]
It seems that no matter where we go as a family, a trip to some sort of museum always lands on the itinerary. I think I have more to do with that than I would like to admit, but I keep telling myself that my husband is secure enough in his masculinity to stare at abstract art for a few minutes and act like it means something to him.
Anyway.
Back in January, we went to Savannah, which many of you may know is a very “artsy” place. While we were there, we took the kids (yes, even the infant) to the Jepson Center. In our defense, they have a great little kid’s section that does a wonderful job of illustrating not only the mechanics of art, but its relevance in our every day lives.
N. and I have great conversations on these little museum trips. Like, the following:
“Hey, N., look at this one, this is by an artist from France.”
“What’s France?”
“A country.”
“What’s a country?”
“A place where people who speak the same language, eat the same kinds of food and wear the same kinds of clothes live together.”
“So. America is not a country.”
“No, America is a country. Actually, it’s the United States of…”
“But people dress different from each other here. And they eat different foods. And they look different,”
“Yeah, well, America is kind of special like that.”
“Oh, we’re better because we’re special.”
This is the point in the conversation where I flash forward twenty years and see my daughter holding up a poster with the words, “If you don’t love America, get the hell out” MINUS the sense of irony.
“Um, no…”
“Oh, we’re worse than France…”
“NO WAY… we’re just…”
“Where is France, Mama?”
“In Europe.”
“What’s Europe?”
“A continent.”
“What’s a continent?”
This is the point in the conversation where other patrons of the museum start staring at me.
“A continent is a big piece of land that different countries are a part of… like, we live in North America.”
“Oh, they named the continent after us.”
“Um. Yes. No. Wait… I don’t know…”
“DID THEY NAME THE CONTINENT AFTER US OR NOT?”
“I DON’T KNOW.”
This is the point in the conversation where the other patrons of the museum start laughing at me.
“Who made continents?”
“Well, Allah made continents.”
“Why?”
“Because, you know, he could… and, I guess, so people could live on them, so, um, we would have a place to live.”
This is a place in the conversation where I foolishly assume that I have (a) dodged a major bullet and (b) ended the conversation.
“Why did he want people to live on them?”
“So, we could follow his plan, you know, so we could do things like take care of each other and …”
“What did he make the continents out of?”
“Rocks…”
“How did he make the rocks stick together?”
This is the point in the conversation where the other patrons start pitying me.
“I…uh, that’s a great question… we should ask….”
“He used Play-Doh.”
“No, I don’t think…”
“Yes… YES! He used Play-Doh. Brown play-doh, so we couldn’t see it.”
“N., I don’t think God used Play-Doh to stick rocks together to make continents.”
“Yes, he did. I was there.”
“Oh, you were there? Really?” I say this with way more sarcasm than is appropriate when addressing a four year old.
“Yes, it was before you were born,”
“I was born before you.”
“It was when I was up in heaven, you weren’t there, I saw him use Play Doh to stick the rocks together…”
“Come on, honey, you didn’t…”
“I WAS THERE, IT WAS BEFORE YOU WERE BORN, I SAW HIM DO IT.”
This is the point in the conversation where the other patrons begin handing me cards with the names of psychiatrists on them. Or affirming their belief that those people from over there are just born extremists, aren’t they…
“Okay, fine. Look this painting is of a flower.”
“What’s a flower…”
This is the point in the conversation where I wish I had just taken her to the Magic Kingdom instead.
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