I had six boys.  Three girls were spaced amongst them, but my first and last child were boys.  I’ve always liked boys.  Girls are a little bit more complicated.

I volunteered as a chaperone for a field trip with my youngest son’s class to a nearby planetarium.  My son’s teacher knew I had several kids, so she gave me three boys to be in charge of, one of them the most “active” in her class.  She told me if he was too much for me I could let her know.  I smiled at her knowing wink and knew right away I was going to learn something besides the orbits of the planets.

Jack was immediately likeable.  He was jumping around and had difficulty standing in line with all the other kids.  I suggested he pretend to be a robot running out of power.  His motions slowed and finally came to a stop.  Then it was time to move on.  He looked at me, and I gave him a thumbs up.  He could be a boy again.

The class moved towards the auditorium but was then required to wait again for the docent to prepare the room.  We waited for a long time in my opinion.  My three charges tried hard to be patient, but alas, boys will be boys…  I asked the teacher if the kids could play tag on the nearby lawn until it was time to go in.  She agreed, and I let my boys fly.

It is so fun to watch kids play tag.  When girls get involved, gender disappears and it’s the fastest and most agile body that gains the victory.  Unfortunately, by middle school age, girls can’t stop being coy and embarrassed or overbearing, but most nine-year-olds are a joy to watch.  My Jack was not that good at tagging or avoiding being tagged, but he had so much energy and enthusiasm he made watching his antics better than theatre.  I was smitten.  A few times I had to reel him in as he crossed the boundaries that the lawn provided.  He was quick to respond to my call and turned immediately to the frenzy on the grass.  This was a good boy through and through.

When we entered the auditorium, the teacher kept asking me if I was doing okay with her “active” student.  No problema.  Jack asked me for help with his folded paper solar system and really seemed to want to do it right.  I enjoyed helping him and was pleased to hear his “thank-you.”   I began to get the feeling that this little boy had impatient parents.  Nothing he did seemed out of the ordinary for a healthy, nine-year-old extrovert.  Do parents realize how easily they can ruin a perfectly healthy kid?  If this young boy grows up hearing how out of control he is, or how he can’t do things right, or he makes bad choices (the new “politically correct” way of saying, “You screwed up”), he could be really damaged.  God help him if they put him on Ritalin, the “first line of defense” against hyperactive kids.  He’ll grow up thinking he needs drugs to deal with life…  By the end of the field trip, I wanted to take Jack home with me.  I knew all about boys who were non-conformists.

There was never a mother who adored her first baby like I did.  The reason I know that is true is because my life didn’t allow me to worship him like I probably would have.  It’s like the mother whose baby is stolen from her and she has to watch someone else raise him.  Her heart bursts every time she sees him, but she has to hold everything in and behave properly.  Instead of devoting my life to his happiness like I wanted, I tried to train him to be good, polite, healthy and confident.  I concentrated on trying not to love him “inordinately,” all the while being overwhelmed with the delight of watching him grow.  His sturdy little body was perfect in my eyes; privately, I called him my little Adonis.  He was the smartest, healthiest, best looking boy, with a mind so quick and independent he could debate an adult and leave them feeling bested, or more often, offended.  With my head held down, I secretly walked like a peacock.

Regularly, I was talked to about my child (and later his siblings) by the teachers in the religious group I joined the year before he was born, and then by his teachers in school.  The church accused me of being “dull” because my child was allowed to behave with a superior air.  He was destined for hell if I didn’t wake up.  The sect I lived under warned against “inordinate affection.”  I learned to love my children in a crazy, divided way, always trying to stay objective with these superlative beings.   I held back from giving them many things I knew could enrich their lives for fear of rebuke, or worse…  Of course, it can be argued that my love was not the right kind of love.   Yet, I wonder if I had been loved the way I love my own children, could I have been spared the disaster that became me?

Now, I watch parents interact with their kids and I wonder if it’s the parents that had good parenting who raise the healthiest kids (mentally and physically); or is it those who had lousy parents and want to be different; or those who read lots of books on child-rearing; or those who have an intuition about what really works for each individual child?  Can we raise good kids and then get lazy?

I’ve been accused by my older boys of spoiling my youngest.  They tell me he is lazy.  I suppose he can be.  He does whine sometimes.  Did the others whine?  I can’t remember.  I didn’t have to work outside the home until my last child started school.  It made a huge impact on the household.  Mothers who work can’t do it all.  It’s a nice thought though…  My younger kids don’t know what a great cook I was…

Back to boys…  I have three adult boys now, no longer my responsibility.  I have enough kids still at home that my older kids don’t get the attention I wish I could pay them.  When you leave the home, you leave a lot behind.   I’ve heard it said that before a woman chooses her mate, first check out how he treats his mother.  My boys treat me like I’m something really special.  They do the kindest things for me.  They are thoughtful and sweet.  My boys are generous and tender.  I actually enjoy my older boys so much, that just thinking about them makes my eyes well up with tears.  They watched my life just as closely as I watched theirs and I feel their love and devotion like a cloak.  I have never doubted my boys’ allegiance to their mother.

I take my boys seriously.   I often have to stop and rethink how I interact with them.  Do I get too tired to acknowledge them fully?  Do I encourage them when they need to be vulnerable?  Can I let them fail without judgment?  Do they feel unconditional love?  They are a privilege and an honor to raise.  They need real attention.  They need commitment and consistency.  They need to feel loved and have opportunity to love.  They are tomorrow’s fathers.  Who doesn’t need a really good father?