Boyhood

(In repeated corrections and rereading of this entry I realize that in my zeal to be honest, and revelatory, I may have inadvertently given the impression I think it's okay to be openly critical of one's own children. I do not. Earnestly and every day we attempt to fully convey to the three children how much we love them. Yet, between us we find it expedient to admit to ourselves and each other how difficult parental responsibility can be. Mister Rogers, for example, very likely never had to be Mister Rogers 24 hours a day. Hope you can understand.) 

Little boys are fiends, everybody knows that, right? To be socially correct, these days, I suppose I should give equal time and say little girls can be monsters too? After all, Cookie Monster is for the amusement of parents of little boys and girls as well as to sort of 'give permissions,' to be naturally greedy, to little boys as well as to little girls. Well, I don't have a little girl so in the mischievous department, and the self-maiming department, I can only speak of little boys. My littlest boy's mother complains, "You never give me girl."

My boy, the youngest, three, has bang marks all over his head, and a scar still visible through his right eyebrow. What am I supposed to do, tie him down all day and all night? The second floor windows, of course, must always be tightly shut, even on the hottest of summer days. He'd have flown to the garden below many times but for that caution. He treats the bunk bed he shares with his older brother as if it were a piece of gym equipment. Since he was two, or younger, he could scramble down at the sound of my approach so fast the squeaking of the bed, and the rustle of his gymnastics caused me to run to the bedroom ready to catch him before he hit the floor, which, miraculously he never has done. To my knowledge he's never hurt himself in the 'gym' only on more prosaic pieces of furniture, and large toys such as metal Tonka Trucks.

I wonder if his aggression comes from wanting and needing to keep up with his several-years-older, two brothers? Recently when both brothers went off to school, leaving him alone, the youngest's personality, and his caution, blossomed. Gee, pretty soon we might even have a conversation. Yesterday we walked around the block sort of chatting the whole time. I figure if I can exhaust him he'll injure himself less often, so our walks will get longer and longer. It's not easy being the youngest.  I was the oldest, and shame on me, I thought the two younger were a pain, an irrelevance to be ignored if at all possible.

Then there's the 'Gimme,' 'Buy me' mania. I've lied and lied about all the things I'll buy him and give him just to shut him up. He's only three, so he mercifully forgets the huge long lists of things I've promised to give and get him. Toy police cars and toy put-em-together-yourself trucks are his favorite. But what am I to make of it when he has a two-by-four, used as a battering ram, a pile driver, crunch savagely into those toys so as to get them apart and to see what's inside? Grin and bear it? I've weakened and asked the idiotic, "Why do you like to break things?" The temper in my voice makes me ashamed even while I'm saying the ridiculous words. I know the answer to my own question only too well, 'Because it's fun, man!'

Hmmm, "You never give me girl" she says with a pretend pout. Shoot, let's give it another shot.

Barry