A Mother's Gift

I did not have brothers growing up. I always wanted one, but intstead, I got two sisters. Which was fine. Better than fine, really. We had a fantastically girlie upbringing, owing to the fact that my mother was a Hairdresser, but we also did all the things my father would have done with a son.

However, I always felt that the lack of a brother made me ill prepared for raising boys. Twelve years ago I cried in a dark and frigid little room when it was revealed that my unborn baby was a boy. I thought, stupidly, that I would never be able to do it "right", and that I would screw up a boy child beyond all reckoning.

Needless to say, I have adapted, and actually, having boys suits me quite well. I have never had any patience for the female tendency toward drama, gossip, and emotional warfare. Their less histrionic way of dealing with the world is refreshing.

But the thing that I have never really grown accostomed to is the male proclivity toward competition and combat. Everything is a contest. Everything. They compete over who can bolt their dinner the fastest, who can fart the longest and loudest, who can run, jump, climb and throw the fastest highest and hardest.

Mostly this isn't a problem, but sometimes, vicious fights erupt. Girls fight with words and wiles, but boys fight with fists. And I am often taken aback by the ferocity of these encounters. When a boy fights, it isn't a little slap or some hairpulling...it's in earnest. Eyes get blackened, noses get bloodied, lips get split.

It's quite shocking to me, but Husband doesn't even bat an eyelash.

I often find that I have little to offer when these occasions arise. I can't mediate because they're long past that point. Husband says that you have to let them fight unless it looks like someone is in danger of being seriously injured, because otherwise, they will simply resume the battle at another time in another place, with possibly even more disastrous results.

He has explained to me that it's vital that boys learn to stand up for themselves and to defend themselves. He says that at some point, every boy will have to prove that he can't be pushed around by kicking someone's ass. So interevening, apparently, is not only ineffectual, it's unwise.

Pacifism it seems, is an option not really available to young men. And though that saddens and puzzles me, it beyond my power to change. I accept it, even if I don't like it. And I am constantly amazed by how boys who were bitter enemies engaged in mortal combat one minute, are laughing and joking with one another the next. Boys fight and forget, while girls hold a grudge.

Sometimes, I do have something to offer. Sometimes, the uniquely female ability exploit a weakness and strike where it really hurts comes in handy. I'm not proud of this ability, but I accept it as an indisputable characteristic of my genetic make-up.

Not long ago, Pre-Pubescent One, who really is very passive and easy going and not often given to physical aggression, came to me with a problem. He is also very sensitive, and as such, makes an excellent target. He came home from school one day very glum. He flung down his backpack, slumped into a kitchen chair and laid his head in his hands.

"John Q. Adolescent SUCKS!" he said vehemently.

"Why?" I asked mildly. I've learned that his sensitivity amplifies otherwise minor matters, and I don't get too upset until I've learned all the details.

"He keeps calling me Pre-Pubescent One GAY-fer." he said with disgust.

This, presumably, was meant to be a play on our last name, but it wasn't a very clever one, as our last name is not even close to sounding like GAY-fer and it doesn't easily lend itself to such a pun. But it didn't matter to Pre-Pubescent One. It was a slur against his emerging and still fragile sexual identity and it was really pissing him off.

"Well, what did you do when he called you that?"

"I told him to shut up and then I left."

Stalked off in a huff, is what he did. And it was immensely gratifying for John Q. Adolescent, who repeated the insult with similarly delightful results every day for a week.

"Honey, you have to stop letting him see that it upsets you. That's why he does it. When you react, he gets what he wants. Don't give him the satisfaction. Just stop reacting and he'll stop teasing you."

He rolled his eyes at me and his frown deepend into a full-blown pout.

"That doesn't WORK Mom!"

I thought for a moment about how to help my son. My properly maternal advice really was, quite honestly, nonsensical bullshit. A bully doesn't let something as insignificant as a lack of response stop him. He merely switches tactics until he finds another button to push. No, Pre-Pubescent One was right, and even I knew from experience that the only way to deal with a bully is to give him a taste of his own medicine.

"Alright then...." I said slowly, thinking. "Try this."

I paused for effect.

"You can call him....John Q. UN-Cooley." (The child's last name is Cooley).

My son laughed, delighted at the pun.

"But say it real casually, like you're not upset at all."

"OH YEAH. That oughta shut him up!" he said gleefully.

The next day he came home from school grinning from ear to ear. I asked him if John Q. Adolescent had called him the name today and he nodded his head vigorously.

"Yeah. But I just said 'Whatever, John Q. UN-Cooley.' and everybody laughed!! He got real mad and walked away."

He was delighted and relieved and flush with victory. I couldn't help sharing in his enthusiasm and we grinned at one another conspiratorily.

Was that the right thing to do? Hell, I don't know. I really don't. I could have told him to turn the other cheek, kill him with kindness, be the bigger man. But would it have mattered? Would it have solved the problem? Would it have taught my son anything other than how to roll over and show his tender white belly?

The problem was solved and no blood was shed. I had something to offer and I offered it.

And I have to admit that it felt good.

And that kid? He hasn't bothered my son since.

Heh. Maybe the Department of Defense has a place for me.