I watched an interview with a group of women sociologists who are overseeing programs to help little boys be more sensitive. It was horrifying.
I don’t want to live in a society where little boys are sensitive. I don’t want them to be in touch with their feelings. I don’t want them to have feelings. Their fathers I didn’t have feelings when they were little boys and things worked out fine for them. I still don’t have feelings. If I ever do get a feeling, I damn sure don’t want to get in touch with it.
I know a lot about little boys, because I was one and I raised one.
Little boys come out of the birth canal wanting to spit on something. They just lack the means to do it for a few years. They dedicate a great deal of their formative years making up for that by spitting constantly.
Everything gets spit on.
“Stop spitting,” there mothers tell them, but they are wasting their breathe. Their dad knows better than to say anything. Little boys spit. The concept of not spitting does not compute.
They also spend a great deal of time peeing on things.
I had two girls before we had the boy and the girls never peed on a thing.
The boy peed on everything.
When he was being potty trained, he wanted to use the grown up pot like his dad. His technique was simple and effective: Step a few feet away from the toilet. Pee upward in an arc. Step forward until you hear the pee hitting water. Stop. Once the area of the bathroom around the toilette is completely saturated with pee, spit on something and leave.
Little boys pee on as many things as they spit on. I once heard his mother, an otherwise normally behaved, mature adult, holler out loud in the front yard for all the world to hear: “Don’t you dare pee on that spider!”
She never yelled anything of the sort at the girls.
Just the boy.
They are dirty, aggressive little so and sos, little boys. They push, shove and wrestle. Lord, do they wrestle. They wrestle each other and they wrestle their dads. It is a genetic, ‘Y’ chromosome compulsion, wrestling. They punch, too. I bet I was punched a thousand times by my little boy.
Punching is a form of greeting to a little boy.
The hardest I ever saw my dad laugh was the day my little boy, who was five, greeted him by punching him a few times on the shoulder, grabbed him by the collar and said, “Next time, right in the crackers.”
He wasn’t able to hit hard enough to hurt us, thank goodness, or we’d probably be dead by now.
Once my little boy did actually manage to hurt his old dad. He loved a show called Hercules, starring an actor named Kevin Sorbo. In one episode, Hercules jumps from a ledge and lands on a couple of evil doers below. I was asleep on the couch. My little boy climbed up on the back rest and jumped down on my stomach with both feet.
He literally knocked the wind out of this evil doer.
I added a lot of new words and phrases to his vocabulary that day, all of which he repeated in front of his mother at one time or another over the ensuing weeks.
Both my daughters have feelings. They are in touch with them and share them with their mother. Not the boy. His mother asks him sensitive questions designed to nurture. His answer is a uniform: I don’t know.
If pressed for an answer, he walks off in a huff.
That’s my boy.