Since the birth of my children, everything I had been taught in progressive child-development courses has flown in the face of my own conventional wisdom. I have found, in our househould, my children typically fit the mold of more traditional roles for boys and girls instead of being more "alike" and "androgynous" as my college texts and profs tried to persuade me some years ago.
My daughter is the quintiessential girl: plays house, dresses up, totes every baby around she can pry from its parents, mothers her brothers and other children, etc. My boys have been the physical risk takers, the destroyers, the builders. This was further illustrated to me at the playground after school last week.
Everyone was playing well together on the jungle gym and I was contentedly chatting with two other moms. I hear a little yelp of pain, and then a familiar cry. It's Jacob, eldest brother, but smaller in stature than his next-in line brother Charlie. He's cradling his face and tears are fallling fast. "Mom, Charlie hit me in the face." This is a common occurence around our house; my sons are often slugging one another. (We're trying to remedy this situation by fining them $2 from their piggy-banks). I examine his cheek, and it seems redder and angrier looking than I would have imagined, perhaps turning into a bruise. I ask "What did he hit you with, his shoe?" "No, his sock."
I was stumped...Jacob continues, obviously aware of my confusion. "He filled his sock up with rocks and swunged it at me." Sure enough, cowering underneath the twisty orange slide, Charles is sheepishly trying to conceal the weapon. His tube sock is more than half-full of small rocks. I imagine it packed some punch. But why does my not-quite five year-old know to choose a weapon I imagine being dreamt of in the Big House?
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Monday, September 5, 2011
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