Monday, January 16, 2012

girls harbor; boys hit

Most would say I am raising my children, but every once in a while I am reminded that they are raising me.  Parenting a son is so incongruous with raising daughters; their differences make me laugh, keep me on my toes and simultaneously make me sigh "thank you" at the end of the day when I tire of the mood swings--both theirs and mine.

Girls harbor.
My six year old still re-hashes the day she got stitches.  She was all of two and one-half when she and her dad were goofing around.  She fell and following in my foot steps needed stitches on her chin.  When she's annoyed or angry, or just in need of something to say, she will bring up this incident.  

She's got a mind like a steel trap.
She's not going to forget. Ever.  It's like living with a talkative elephant.  It doesn't matter if it happened four years ago or four minutes ago, she remembers.  Unless of course you just asked her to be quiet.  That request is forgotten even before it passes through her synapses.

Boys hit.
Boys hit.  It's that simple.
Are you in his face?  He's going to hit you.
Did you take his snack? He's going to hit you.
You are hovering?  Smack.
You called him a name? Thwap.
You were just sitting there doing absolutely nothing? (code for sticking your tongue out) Yep, that earns a smack.
You are breathing.  Smack.

Boys hit. 
Boys hit and that's the end.
Until it's time to hit a girl...again.
Girls will still be penalizing their brothers for hitting them when they were five, twenty years later. 

Just for the record, my admonitions of "We don't hit girls!" have been met by "She's not a girl, she's my sister."  Yes, I have some training to do.


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