The Rough and Tumble

A few days ago, I read an interesting article in The Guardian that was not about the forthcoming British general election (incidentally, as far as I can tell, the words "interesting" and "general election" are a bit of an oxymoron, but that's another story).
To get back to the point, then, the article was about a 2-day life swap experiment: the parents of two girls switched places with the parents of three boys.
Aside from the funny bits, I think the point was supposed to be: girls and boys are different.

Sure, it doesn't sound so revolutionary put like that, but the point was cleverly made, and cute enough to make me read on till the end.

And, you know, it's tempting to dismiss all this clap-trap as easy sociological babble... but after you've spent a Sunday afternoon like the one I had - in the presence of five little boys, two of whom belong to me - you can't help but agree that there's a sizeable dose of truth in the clichés.


Little boys are physical beings.
They like to roll around in grass, and get dirty, and brandish swords, and fight, and kick balls around, and investigate, and prod and poke and taste and get dirtier.
They are not so into sitting around in a quiet circle and chatting.


Before I had my first baby, I really wanted to have girls. I think it's OK to admit that now, though it was hard to acknowledge at the time.
I even shed a tear or two when the sonographer first told me the shocking news that my baby would not be a girl. It wasn't so much that I didn't want a boy: it was just that I had no idea what I'd do with one.
I had always imagined me & future offspring drawing quietly together, or chatting, or trying on clothes, or indulging in quaint activities like embroidery - which is as crazy as it gets, because I don't think I've ever embroidered in my life.

I had no clue what boys did for fun. I was worried I would hate their kind of fun.

And now, nearly three years on, I love it.
I love the rough and tumble, the rolling in the grass and the dirty fingernails.
I don't even feel nostalgic for the dozens of Barbies who may well never make it out of hibernation in my Mum's garage and into the loving hands of my own children.

The article in The Guardian ends with an endearing - if slightly far-fetched - theory that "a mother gets the kids she is cut out to have".
It's a bit of a chicken-and-egg situation, but the idea is that "mums of boys" prefer the boy stuff, and mums of girls are better suited to the girl stuff.

And last Sunday, as I lay squashed and battered under a bundle of hysterical boys waving twigs, I thought that this might well be true.
Mums of boys are like tea bags: you don't know how strong we are until you fling us into a cup of boiling water (and batter us with a big stick)...