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.

On the other side of this nation, a man lives in a state that I have never visited.

This man and I, we have never looked into each other’s eyes and smiled at a secret joke that only close friends share.  We’ve never talked on the phone, or had dinner together with our families.  We’ve never stopped by each other’s places for a cup of coffee or offered to watch each other’s children.

Still, we are friends.  Not close in the way that most people define “close,” of course.

Every few days, we take the time to read about each other’s lives, offer support when needed and encouragement when appropriate.  This is what binds us.  And this, in my mind, is enough for a friendship to be real.

Jason’s life, in so many ways, is a lot like mine.

We have spouses.

We have children.

We have siblings.

We have responsibilities, obligations, joy, laughter and a strong sense of treating other people with kindness and compassion.

We are also different in many ways.  Most of those ways don’t matter to me, save that they might actually make me like Jason a little more.

There is one difference between the two of us, though, that does matter to me.

My mother is alive and Jason’s is not.

Jason lost his mother to breast cancer in 1996.

As a general rule, I try to put myself in other people’s shoes all the time.

How would I feel?  What would I do if I were this person?  How would I want another person to support me?

In this case, I am not comfortable doing this.

But, I will.

Because Jason is my friend, and that’s what friends do for one another.

If I had lost my mother to breast cancer over a decade ago, I would miss her every single day until the day I died.

I would push back tears every single time I had to mention her to someone.

I would wish with all my might that she were here to watch my kids graduate from high school, college, maybe even see them get married.

I would feel inadequate when I tried to describe who she was to my children who had never met her.

I would feel anger, guilt and unbearable sadness.

I would become a person who had to try to be happy because my mother’s absence would make something that should feel natural feel just that more forced.

I would wonder why this had to happen.

I would want to know how I could have stopped this.

I would look around for ways that I could stop this from happening to other women, to other families.

I would find an organization like Susan G. Komen, dedicated to educating communities about breast cancer prevention that worked not only on a local level, but on an international level, to raise awareness.

I would begin to understand that one of the best ways to stop this from happening again to someone else, maybe even to my own daughter, would be to support an organization like this.

I would commit myself to helping this organization.

I would volunteer to walk sixty miles over a three day period so someone else’s mom, maybe my friend’s mom, would have a chance against a disease that claimed over 40, 000 lives in 2009.

I would sleep on the ground in a tent even though I abhor the thought of sleeping outside.

I would want my friends to support me through that.

I’m not saying that’s how Jason feels.  I’m saying if I were Jason, that’s how I would feel.

I know that this is what I would want and also who I would want to be.

Jason is my friend, and I’m supporting him because that’s what I would want.

Please CLICK HERE to support my friend Jason if you feel so inclined.  No amount is too small.