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So, Silas is feeling better! He seems to be getting back into his sleeping groove– going to bed last night at 7:30 (Praise the Lord!) and napping as I write this (Can I get an Amen!) Yesterday afternoon, we were actually able to spend some quality time rolling the ball around in the yard without any sign of a meltdown, and then, brace yourself, Paul and I were not only able to watch a movie together, we were able to cuddle up while we watched it! And if that wasn’t enough, my awesome hubby managed morning duty all by himself and I got to sleep in until 9:30! Oh, how sweet life is!

Now, you know and I know, that I am doing my best at the glass half full thing. So, I would like to squelch any possible mis-readings even before I begin. My tone for the remainder of this post will be bathed in the bright light of sarcasm. I am not, in any way, shape, or form, honestly complaining. I am only paying homage to the fact that I am now living in a household in which I am a gender minority and the majority has already begun gaining power-by-number and using its iron-fisted methods of oppression. I am the clear underdog.

Lately, and I started out really okay with this, Silas has been clinging to his Da-Da for dear life. He whines if his father passes him to me and throws really outrageous and unbecoming tantrums if he sees good ole Da-Da even getting in his truck. He has also cleanly and successfully obliterated the word “Ma-Ma” from his vocabulary and has started using the word “Da-Da” not only to mean “father” but to mean anything pleasurable, exciting, or hilarious.

“Da-da!” (Translation: This sure is a tasty banana!)

“da-Da!” (Translation: I love my new kid-sized wheelbarrow!)

“Daaaa-Da!” (Translation: Let’s go outside and play with Man-toys!)

“Da-Daaaa!” (Translation: Oh, yippee! Mama’s going to the store and leaving us men to concoct devilish plans on how to annoy her when she gets home! We’ll obviously start by playing on the kitchen floor while she does the dishes!)

So, yeah, I’m feeling a little outnumbered. What happened to that whole “baby boys just love their mothers” thing? Or, the supposed rumor (and Paul read this to me from a book while I was pregnant) that the Mama functions as the entire Universe until the boy reaches five! My only attempts at reassurance come from my belief that maybe Silas is just that advanced. It’s like he’s moved out of the Mama stage and he’s ready for college.

I’m sure a lot of Silas’s newfound infatuation with his Y-chromosone donor comes from the fact that A.) they are both musicians (yes, i count shaking yellow giraffe maracas, playing a Fisher Price electric guitar, and banging wooden spoons on metal bowls as music making), B.) they both like to do things like fart and avoid clean up and veg out in front such ridiculous five o’ clock freakshows as “Hole in the Wall” or whatever the heck it’s called (all habits i am less-than-thrilled about) C.) they both have male gentalia and D.) they’ve had a lot more time to spend together since i’ve been back at work.

And, I’m happy about their similarities and their newfound time together. But, I am also well aware of the inherent danger in this situation.

This morning– this lovely morning– for example, while I was lost in a dream about being crowned “Classroom Queen” (No, I feel no obligation to explain what I mean by that), my lovely boys were camped out on the living room floor, surrounded by dirty diapers and wipes, by empty soda cans and juice boxes (50/50 juice/water Thank God!), watching crap on the t.v. and polishing off a entire bunch of bananas. (At least it wasn’t Ho-Hos. It might have been if Paul didn’t already know that that would be grounds for murder.) When they ran out of bananas or when they tired of infomercials, they both got dressed in odd multi-patterned and multi-seasoned ensembles that I hoped were bout of pre-Halloween creativity but were not.

Maybe that doesn’t seem like much to worry about. And yes, I have a lot to be thankful for. But, coup d’etats often start out small. Every little secret lick of ice cream, every little mismatched pair of socks, every little smile and snicker when I lose my cool, every hour spent feigning sickness so I am the only one left who can finish the laundry has the distinct odor of treason. I am fast learning that I am not the head pirate on this ship.

And, Silas is only one. He can’t even really talk yet. What happens when he catches up with his Dad’s never-forgotten middle school mentality? I am absolutely doomed.
Okay, you might be thinking that I am taking this a bit overboard. You might be snickering to yourself about the fact that I am so uptight. Or, maybe, just maybe, your sympathizing with me, because you have also had to hand over the parental joy stick.

Honestly, I am getting a little nervous. I am hesitant to leave them alone. One day, Goldfish and Cheerios is an adequate dinner and going to bed with just a tiny, little bit of a bottle is okay (yes, I about completely lost it about that one) and the next thing I know their eating Sunday dinner at Hooters. I mean, I feel like I’m just a stones throw away from finding them in a pissing contest on our back deck!

The odd thing about it all is that I never really considered my husband to be a “manly-man”. He’s sensitive and passionate, uninterested in sports, is a lover of art and nature, and doesn’t prefer Pamela Anderson over Cate Blanchett. Still, when the Ultrasound confirmed that we were going to have a son (and until then Paul actually wanted a girl), Paul smirked and sighed in such a way that I knew he feeling all smug and giddy about having made a boy. He started showing off the Ultrasound pics, pointing to Silas’s penis, and bragging about how well he was hung. He was damn proud of himself. Me Powerful Man. Me Do Push Ups. Me Create Penis and Testicles Out of Thin Air. Ug! Ug!

Odd things started happening. When we talked about letting Silas pick out the kind of toys he would like to play with instead of choosing toys for him, it was suggested that most toys were kosher but that Strawberry Shortcake was off limits. Then Paul started constructing a fantasy in which the two companeros– Paul and Little Paul– would go on tour together playing their loud electric Fenders in Honky Tonks and dingy bars while mom stayed home to tend the garden. Paul even went as far as jumping off the bed screaming “Ew! Disgusting!” when I suggested that I hoped Silas found a woman or man as good his Dad to love. (I should note that this blatant and disgusting display of homophobia is very uncharacteristic for my husband. Otherwise, I doubt I would have married him.)Apparently, we haven’t made it out of the Ice Ages yet. Apparently, a male siring another male opens the unattractive door for comments like: “I am man! Hear me Grunt and Denounce Everything Girley! Watch me Flex my Biceps and eat Beanie-Weenies from the Can!”

Since rearing a sensitive, non-misogynistic, creative, loving, communicative male is on my to-do list, I am feeling compelled to get back behind the controls. To limit the amount of “boy time” that they spend together. To repaint Silas’s room in shades of yellow and pink. To sneak My Little Ponies into the toy chest.

Still, I fear that any and all of my efforts will not be enough. Our home, once a sensibly decorated, relatively clean, incense -laden, gender neutral den of happiness, is fast transforming into a filthy bachelor’s cave. Despite these difficult changes, I will do my best to remain centered and feminine. I will call for help if I find them gnawing on raw deer leg. And, I will work my hardest to produce a female ally next time around.

(Truth be told, I’d actually like another son, but don’t tell Paul that…)

Send me your most estrogen-laden wishes. I need a partner in PMS.

This entry was posted on Sunday, October 19th, 2008 at 1:39 pm and is filed under Favorite Posts, On Friends and Family. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.