Girl Power

For most of my life, I’ve gotten along better with men than women. Even though I have four sisters, I always felt more comfortable hanging out with the boys than giggling with the girls. During my elementary school years when the rest of the kids feared they would catch cooties if they intermingled with the opposite gender, I was spending weekends and summers playing kickball and Marco Polo with the neighborhood boys.

While I’ve always had female friends as well, the year we changed from co-ed birthday parties to single-sex sleepovers was a tough transition for me. I quit cheerleading in high school to join the band with my guy friends, and never belonged to a sorority in college. After graduation, I twice opted to rent apartments with male friends (and loved it) before finally living on my own.

So, years later, when I learned I was going to have a baby boy, I was ready, excited even. “I can do this,” I thought. “I love boys!”

And so far, it’s been great. I love that my son will play with anybody, isn’t picky about his clothing (well, once we established no buttons, zippers, or snaps), doesn’t get tangles in his hair, and only needs 2 pairs of shoes in any given season. I love that he’ll put on a temporary tattoo and never scrub it off even when just specks of ink remain.

Last year I had a baby girl, and I was a little worried at first. “I’m not a girly-girl,” I’d tell friends. “I don’t know how to raise a girl. I can’t cook or decorate. I’m not into fashion, or makeup, or hair. I don’t want to go to the American Girl café!” (I know, I’m stereotyping to the extreme, but my tendency towards self-doubt combined with pregnancy hormones led me down that path.)

My sister used to tell me that my tendency towards male friendships was going to need to change when I became an adult. I didn’t really understand. During my single years, I was part of a broad group of male and female colleagues who worked and partied together. Why couldn’t that just continue on?

But now I do understand. As a suburban mother, I’ve found it much harder to pal with the guys. It’s not just the obvious concerns of jealousy or inappropriate attention that separate us, but our disparate lifestyles. While I am lucky enough to have maintained some of my friendships with the former boys, now men, of my past, my position as mom brings me much more in contact with their wives, and new acquaintances are almost exclusively female – other moms, nannies, teachers and many of my fellow therapists. There is an occasional man in the mix, but not many.

Note, this is just an observation, not a complaint. I wish I was better at connecting with other women, because they are my compatriots. Women support each other with a sympathetic shoulder and an empathetic ear. They create opportunities for escape with babysitting coops, girls’ nights, book groups, and bunco. They bring you chicken soup when you’re sick, or better yet, offer carpools and sleepovers because they know when mom is sick, nothing can get done (and moms won’t stop unless they are forced to).

And I’ve learned something else recently. Namely, boys are gross. My son is now in first grade, which seems to be a high point for toilet humor. Words like “fart” and “poop” and even “toilet” send him into hysterics, and he will chant made-up verses with these words over and over.

He is messy and dirty, and does not understand the need for baths, toothbrushes, or combs, which apparently goes with the territory. One day he decided to cut (i.e. butcher) his own hair. I was mortified and called the teacher to explain why he looked so disheveled, but she hadn’t even noticed. His hair, with tufts sticking out here there and everywhere, matched the rest of the boys.

And his energy could fuel a small country. He has two speeds, fast and faster, and speaks at two levels, loud and louder. There is no longer any silence in my home until after bedtime.

I adore my son, but he doesn’t seem like the boys of my past, and I have changed too. Now I can’t wait for bright pink manicures and tea parties, ballet recitals, and yes, even trips to the American Girl café. I guess I’m growing up.