Boys Don't Cry

In a future blog, I will make sure to list in alphabetical order all of the things I hate about the McDonald’s Play Land.  For the sake of argument and time, I will just proceed with my story.

A couple of weeks ago my mother-in-law took all of the grandkids to McDonald’s for lunch and I tagged along.  With five kids in tow we of course had to sit at the table right next to the Play Land.  It smelled like feet, as most play areas do, and was full of bacteria.  Feet-stink mixed in with chicken-nugget-stink made the place almost unbearable.  My mother in law, ever vigilant and detail oriented, spent half the time pointing out all the kids who weren’t wearing socks and how the sign clearly states that ALL KIDS MUST WEAR SOCKS.  She also noticed the neglectful mother/grandmother at the table behind us who was letting her son/grandson (we couldn’t tell which) run amuck inside the tunnels and terrorize the rest of the children.  My son was way too excited to eat and barely touched his Happy Meal.  As soon as I said the word “go” he sped off and up the stairs and into those dreaded tunnels above us.  On my list, “T” will be for tunnels, because I hate those things.  I can’t see what’s going on or what tunnel my son is about to come out of.  I understand they need to economize space but why do they put the tunnels above our heads?  I can’t move my wide hips up the steps that lead to the tunnels much less fit through the tunnels themselves, you know, if I would have to find my son in the event of a freak out.  Play Land was probably designed by a mother who couldn’t stand her children and wanted to lose them for a couple of hours while she ate twenty cheeseburgers in peace.  Listen to me, if you have a child below the age limit on the Play Land Rules, don’t send him up.  It’s like a roach motel for toddlers, “Kids go up, but they never come down.”  When my son was smaller it was like a game of Marco Polo to get him to find his way back to me.  On this particular day we had backup.  Four of his older cousins were up there with him, so for once I wasn’t too terribly worried about him getting stuck, or lost, or falling out of a hole in the ceiling.  I knew that they would keep an eye out on him and lead him back to safety should he lose his way.  I love that about family. 

Just as I started to relax about my son being in the Play Land maze, all hell broke loose.  You have to understand that as my son gets older, his control freak tendencies (which he inherited from, well, I won’t name names but it starts with “d” and ends with an “addy”) are surfacing more and more every day.  He does this thing now where he just sort of sits at the entry ways to tunnels or slides.  He does it at the park, at the mall, and anywhere there is a distinct “in” or “out.”  I think he likes to pretend that he’s the gatekeeper of a portal to the other worlds, or perhaps a bouncer at a trendy nightclub.  Only the cool kids can enter.  While it entertains him it can be very frustrating to other little kids who just want to crawl through the dang tunnels or go down the slide.  And that’s exactly what happened that afternoon.  Some little boy wanted to pass through a tunnel that my son was blocking and instead of being polite about it he screamed right in my son’s face.  This was the same little boy whose mom/grandma was ignoring him and reading a magazine--as he screamed in my son’s face.  Not to be outdone, my son screamed right back.  They screamed back and forth for a minute until I thought some punches might be thrown.  As I perched on the edge of my seat, ready to grease myself up and wiggle through the tunnels to my son, the other little boy finally gave up and came down the steps.  My son followed.  I gently reminded him that he needs to move out of the way and to not block the tunnels.  It wasn’t the perfect moment to gently remind him of anything.  I could see that both the screaming match and my admonishment had hurt his feelings.  My son is a lot like me, he can’t get into an argument without crying.  I hate that about myself.  Every time I fight I always have to cry.  I feel too much.  Sensing that his feelings were hurt, I asked my son to come to me as I held out my arms.  “I’m not cryin’,” he said, as he turned red and stuck out his bottom lip.  His face looked like it would crack if you blew on it.  “I’m not crying!” he screamed at me.  As I neared him and tried to calm him down and comfort him, he said it again, “Mama I’m NOT CRYING!”  And shortly thereafter, he started crying uncontrollably as I scooped him up and carried his flailing limbs out of McDonalds.

I don’t get boys.  There was a time when my son would hold his arms up to me anytime he was barely hurt so that I could comfort him and hold him.  That time has passed.  Now when he’s hurt, physically or emotionally, anger always follows.  He throws a fit of anger and then follows it up with “I’m not crying,” which is my indicator that he wants to cry so badly that one wrong look will send him over the edge.  I want to know where this machismo comes from.  It certainly wasn’t me.  Who taught my son that crying is unacceptable and where is that person so I can pound on him a little bit?  To be fair, I don’t think anyone taught him to be like this.  He’s a boy.  Of course, I’m finding out every day there are more differences between boys and girls besides the obvious one. Boys like to act like nothing hurts them.  Girls get hurt if you cross your eyes at them.  Boys don’t like to cry; girls make it their nightly entertainment (see: slumber parties for sixth grade girls.) 

I know all about girls, having been one myself now for thirty-three years.  We cry.  Ok, I cry.  Over everything.  Now that I have a child I have to confess that I have cried and probably would cry again at the following things: Oprah’s last show, the youtube video of the lion hugging its former owner, Folgers commercials at Christmas, John Wayne movies, the montage of neglected pets with those Willie Nelson/Sarah McLachlin songs playing in the background, the Coke polar bears, mother’s day cards, father/daughter dances at weddings, mother/son dances at weddings, the moment on Full House when the music starts playing, driving past my old house, homeless people, and against my better judgment, while listening to country music.  I cry a lot.  It doesn’t take much to hurt my feelings either.  You’d think by now, having been through so much, that I would have toughened up, but my skin’s as thin as an Olsen twin.  My husband is constantly telling me that I need to stop letting people hurt my feelings.  I don’t ask to get hurt.  Let’s be honest, people suck.  I’ve been made fun of.  I’ve been rejected.  I’ve been ignored, laughed at, given dirty looks and insulted and I’ve cried almost every time it’s happened.  I laugh it off sometimes but when I’m alone, yeah, I cry.  I’m a girl and I’m sensitive.  As much as I try to toughen up, it’s just the way I am.  I’m easily wounded and I cry but in the end I survive.  It’s kind of my thing.

But boys?  I still don’t get them.  I sleep with one and I’m raising one, but I’m still learning about them.  If you think there’s not much to them, you’re not paying attention.  My son teaches me more than I will ever teach him.

REM said it, everybody hurts.  I’m fascinated though at how differently we all react to it.  Right now my son reacts to being hurt with anger, followed quickly by hysteria.  With me, obviously, it’s crying.  Some people lash out at anyone in their path when they’re hurt and some push away the people they care about most.  What’s the healthy reaction?  God only knows.  No, I don’t want my son to be a sissy cry baby, but I want him to feel like he can still be a man and cry when he’s hurt.  I don’t want him to have to convince me and himself that he’s “not cryin” when I know that’s exactly what he wants to do.  He’s only three years old for crying out loud, pardon the expression.  I want him to let it out now at Play Land so that later in life he’s not some tattooed, tobacco chewing tough guy who starts bar fights.  Because you know it’s just a few short steps between McDonald’s and the neighborhood tavern. 

I know.  I counted.