Posts Tagged ‘ boys will be boys ’

You Don’t Have To Teach A Boy To Make A Mess… Or To Find Trouble!

Tuesday, April 15th, 2014

3 years, 4 months.

Dear Jack,

Saturday morning as we were getting ready to go to the Vanderbilt scrimmage game, which we actually missed because we were hanging way too long at a new vegan café we discovered thanks to a Groupon… you were being quiet and happy over at the window sill.

Finally, you announced to Mommy and me:

“Look, I’m killing this bug!”

Turns out, the thing was already dead. So I guess what you meant to say was that you were dissecting the bug… by smashing it with a vanilla-scented candle.

(All while wearing your “Just Like Daddy” t-shirt.)

Little black legs were everywhere.

I let you have your fun- after all, you’re a boy. You’re supposed to scrape up your elbows and knees… and make messes.

Granted, I don’t have to teach you to do this. You just naturally know where to find the right environment.

Again, I support it. You need to be a boy.

But it goes without saying that I provided you with the handheld vacuum cleaner and made you suck up all the loose bug body parts.

Then Sunday night while Mommy and I were preparing dinner, again you were being quiet and happy… the perfect combination for you to find trouble.

You had discovered some candy that you were supposed to save until Easter. Yeah, Mommy and I caught you “brown handed,” underneath your chair.

But we were laughing way too hard to be the least bit upset with you.

Besides, whether you had that non-approved candy then or on Easter, I guess it doesn’t really matter anyway. Delaying the sugar rush only to add it to the jackpot on Easter doesn’t make much sense, I guess.

Being a boy is fun. Discover your world. I will be there to laugh with you. And sometimes, at you.

Can you blame me?

Love, Daddy

Find fun crafts your kids can make with stuff you already have at home (except dead bugs).

Mom Confessions: The Strangest Thing I've Found in My Purse Was...
Mom Confessions: The Strangest Thing I've Found in My Purse Was...
Mom Confessions: The Strangest Thing I've Found in My Purse Was...

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It’s A Good Thing For Little Boys To Get Their Clothes Dirty

Sunday, March 16th, 2014

3 years, 4 months.

Dear Jack,

Yesterday morning as we were hanging out at the park, waiting for the Monster Jam truck show to begin, you got your clothes pretty dirty.

As Mommy put it, “Jack, you smell like a boy.”

That’s what she says after you’ve had a lot of fun outside, doing what little boys should be doing:

Running around, crashing your toy monster trucks into each other, rolling in the leaves, lying on the ground, touching random people’s pet ferrets…

Yeah, you managed to do all those things in a 45 minute time span.

In essence, all the clothes you wear are “play clothes.”

Because honestly, when are you not playing and getting dirty?

I know these days there are so many rules and expectations about boys “behaving” in a classroom setting.

That’s why when you’re not in school, I encourage you to let loose.

You’re a boy.

I want you to feel like one. I want you to feel like you can be one.

It’s important to me that you can be yourself and express your energy in a harmless way… by getting your clothes dirty.

Granted, our family is very into hygiene.

But there’s definitely a difference between germs and dirt.

I don’t like germs.

However, dirt I don’t have a problem with. Hey, it’s natural. It’s the Earth itself, right?

So sure, you washed your hands after petting the ferret… only to get them dirty again by lying down on the sidewalk.

Like riding on the front of a grocery shopping cart or running around aimlessly in open-ended public spaces, it’s just one more thing that little boys are supposed to do: Get dirty.

I want you to be disciplined and respectful and kind.

But I also want you to enjoy the fresh air, the green grass, and the brown dirt.

It’s only natural. Literally.

 

Love,

Daddy

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The Compartmentalization Of A Little Boy’s Brain

Tuesday, April 23rd, 2013

2 years, 5 months.

Dear Jack,

I am told on a weekly basis, by family members, by friends, by co-workers, and readers, that I am a very “black-and-white, cut-and-dry” person; that there is no gray with me.

It’s as if I put every situation and event in it’s own compartment in my brain; as if history always repeats itself.

Maybe that’s part of the reason I’m a vegan. All or nothing, right?

Maybe that’s why I make a living by discovering performance formulas for my company to help them become more efficient.

I look at what does work, separate it from what doesn’t work, then check for reoccurring patterns.

Sure, I realize the world isn’t categorized in perfectly organized compartments, but I work to help make it that way as much as possible.

Son, I’m pretty sure you’re going to be a lot like me in those regards. In fact, I’m pretty sure you already are that way.

Sunday afternoon as Mommy was preparing dinner, you got upset because she wasn’t able to play trains with you like I was. After about 90 seconds of a breakdown because you couldn’t stand to be playing without her though she was only 10 feet away, I had to take action.

You and I went upstairs to play. You had to be moved out of the compartment of “Mommy, play with me!” to “Me and Daddy are playing like boys!”

By the time we stepped into your room, you were fine with Mommy being downstairs… in a “different compartment.”

The base of our papasan rocking chair broke, only leaving the dome-shaped seat part intact.

As I spun you around and quickly swayed you, it magically became a yellow submarine, a monster truck, and a horsey.

Together, you and I were loud, rough, and technically violent in our Daddy-son compartment.

You stripped yourself down to your pro-wrestler/superhero attire, which is a diaper and nothing else.

But once Mommy entered the room, you became a different little boy; a little boy who wanted to read and wear clothes, not play.

I’ve also noticed that everyday when I drop you off at school, you get quiet the moment I hand you over to your teacher, not speaking or showing emotion again until after I’m out of sight.

Different compartments.

Who knows? Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m drawing too many conclusions; because after all, I’ve already established that I look for patterns and formulas in everything.

Maybe little girls can just as easily be the same way. I wouldn’t know about that; no history to build on since you don’t have a sister.

 

Love,

Daddy

 

 

 

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Boys And Their Battle Scars

Friday, January 25th, 2013

2 years, 2 months.

Dear Jack,

Nearly a month ago while I was converting your crib into a bed, you managed to make your way over to a wooden panel I had just removed and set aside on the other corner of your bedroom.

Unfortunately, your innocent curiosity led to the wooden panel falling and hitting you in the face.

It frightened you more than anything. While it didn’t leave a bruise, it did cut you.

If only you had my oily Italian skin, the cut would have been healed up already. Instead, weeks later there’s still a visible mark there.

Mommy and I have been faithfully applying aloe vera and Mederma for Kids on it.

I feel horrible that this happened to you.

The problem is, you’re a boy, and you wanted to be part of the action. You wanted to see me “build your big boy bed.”

Son, I am very sorry. Hopefully, the cut won’t become a permanent scar.

At the same time, I know I can’t shelter you from everything. You’re going to get hurt, no matter how much I try to protect you. There will always be some random way for you to get hurt; one that I just didn’t see coming.

For what it’s worth, last weekend while I was playing trains with you on the floor, you came charging at me with your closed fists up in the air.

Smack! The toy train in your right hand hit me directly in the middle of my forehead. What was a cut for a few days became slightly infected, officially making it a stubborn zit.

So right now, you and I both have noticeable red dots on our faces. They’re just our matching battle scars.

Still, if you end up not having a scar from this, it will be a big sigh of relief for me.

Not because you would be any less of a beautiful boy, but because it would serve as a reminder that ultimately you got hurt and I had something to do with it.

 

Love,

Daddy

 

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