Raising a Boy

I am a girl.

My son is a boy.

There are two parts to that sentence. Both make things a little different.

My son was the first part. That says so much of it. He is my son. He was in my belly for nine months. He has my eyes. He has my cheeks. We laugh about things and have a special nickname (buhbuhbee, which means 'person that I love'). We like Mandarine and Mango Iced Green Tea. He sings and dances all the time. He's mine.

The second part is boy. He is a boy. I am not. No matter how alike we are, we are always going to be different. I don't see the appeal that his 'birdie' and 'big things' have for him. He will grow and develop in ways that I did not. Society will place different expectations upon him.

I would like to think, however, that my expectations of him are not different from those of a little girl. I want him to be polite. I want him to listen. I want him to be a good member of society. I'd want that of a girl. I want that of a guy. I'd hate to think that I required different things of him or treated him differently because he's a boy. I treat him like a Patrick. I treat him like a child of mine. I treat him like someone that I'd want to hang out with later in life. I don't let him get away with things because he's a boy and thus expected to do them louder, faster or with less attention. He's my child and he is expected to do them the way I taught them to him - or better.

I have so much more to say on this topic but I'm tired. Perhaps later. Until then, I have a child to remind to say please.