Thank God, I grew up in an era where being a boy was
simply being a boy. We didn’t have to
worry about being psychoanalyzed by our parents for playing cops and robbers,
or cowboys and Indians. It was
considered natural. Today’s libtards
consider that kind of role playing deviant behavior. Here is an article published in the Huffington
Post demonstrating this chickification of boys.
I woke up
this morning to my nearly 5-year-old son, his big blue eyes close to mine,
saying "Mama! Let's play!" Somehow, I dragged myself to the living
room where he had set up dinosaurs. He told me the rules: "My dinosaurs
have superpowers and yours don't. Mine find yours and then kill them with their
power!" That woke me up.
I wondered if I should say
something to him about killing -- again. I tried to redirect the violence in
the play by having my dinosaurs offer friendship and joint living in a cave. He
didn't bite. "No! they are not friends! OK mama? OK?" "OK,"
I said, in resignation. Because at that moment, it felt like I had lost that
battle.
What happened to my gentle little
boy who would cradle his dolls if they happened to fall on the ground? Where is
the boy who would never consider the possibility of intentionally hurting
another? And where did this one, who pretends to shoot others, come from?
"My son will never do that," I used to say.
As usual, parenting is humbling.
Guns first showed up last year.
Amidst his love affair with Mary Poppins and Annie, he also started asking
about weapons. He wanted me to cut a gun out of cardboard so he could take it
to school. Mortified, I imagined his teachers' reactions when they saw it.
She
continues:
As a mom, it's not that simple. A therapist is trained to put her own issues aside, or to
use them in a way that will benefit the patient. But as a mom, my ego is
wrapped up in my son. His behavior often feels like a reflection of who I am
and how I am perceived. I know this feeling is detrimental, but it is sometimes
hard to shake.
My own associations to guns and
violence are not the same as my son's. At just the mention of guns, I feel a
wave of sadness and despondence. I think about school shootings, accidental
shootings in homes with guns, and wars.
My son's interest in guns has to do
with his developmental stage as a kid and as a boy. He is becoming more aware
of his own agency. He experiments with being defiant. "You are not a good
mama!" he says, when he is upset at me. "I hate this food!" he
says, about dishes he loved a day earlier. Then he looks up at me with red
cheeks to see if he has crossed the line, wanting to make sure that there is
indeed a line.
He divides the world into
black/white, good/bad, yes/no, perhaps as a way to simplify a world that he is
beginning to sense is not so simple.
He is becoming more aware of those
around him and how their actions reflect on him. He sees fellow students who
are older and more competent than he is in certain areas and feels
disempowered, just by their presence.
That's why he loves superheroes. Playing games with a clear
bad guy to defeat --and a clear good guy who usually has a little extra power
born out of goodness -- makes him feel safe again. I get that. It is the
preoccupation with weapons and violence that stops me in my tracks. I struggle
with whether his play stems from the desire to HURT another, or OVERPOWER another.
So, what do I do?
When I can I play with him, hoping
that if he acts out the dynamics of good and bad, powerful and weak, healthy
and injured, he is releasing some of his anxiety.
On some days I allow him to defeat
me with his powerful dinosaurs. I let him make up the rules and I pretend to be
scared of his strength. He becomes exhilarated and later seems to be much
better company during the dinner/bath marathon.
On other days I fight back, unable
to put my own sense of powerlessness aside. My army people find a place to
hide, my dinosaurs demonstrate their own strength and I try to outsmart him (we
all know it is impossible to outsmart a kid).
On my worst days I freeze up. He
mentions guns and I wonder where I went wrong. I feel as though the future is
bleak and full of pain and war, and I couldn't do anything to help, not even
raise a mensch. In those moments, I don't allow him to be him.
Thank God, neither
my mom nor my aunts treated us boys like this.
Exactly when did this change happen?
I have a feeling, twenty years from now, this country is going to have a
psychiatrist shortage due to a high demand from men who, when boys, were made
to wear training bras.
