When Biology is Destiny

When I entered motherhood I had just so many fine ideals and theories of raising the most perfect children. The first resolve to drop off the radar was cloth diapers. I wasn’t going to use those environmentally toxic unfriendly disposal Pampers or Huggies. That resolution ended after the first sleep deprived week at home. After that - Pampers all the way, Baby!

I threw out the baby books that I had been given after the first week of breastfeeding. All those promises/warnings of “don’t be surprised if you experience multiple orgasms while nursing”. Hey, I was always up for multiple orgasms which was no doubt why I had three children in four years but the reality is only a dominatrix could think that the initial stages of breastfeeding’s could produce an orgasm. Even after the extreme pain vanished there was never the slightest chance of orgasm which leads me to speculate that other people have a much more bizarre sexual life than I could possibly imagine. And if the books were will filled with such utter rot about breastfeeding; I wasn’t willing to chance the rest. I figured I was better off on my own instincts, and if all else failed, there was always my angry GP, Dr. Freddie.

I was not ever going to allow my children to play with toy guns or encourage aggressive play, and if I had a son; by golly, he could play with all the dolls or Barbies his little heart desired and then some. I never bought toy guns but I was taught by my first son that everything is a weapon. And I do mean everything. To this day, I never understood where he got the idea of stripping the Barbies down to the buff, bending them over and sticking them feet first in the front of his pampers to use as his six-shooters. Who would have thought it was the daughter and not him that ended up being the top shot?

I was forced to acknowledge that time-outs could not be the only form of discipline with a toddler after the Last Amazon was interfering with her younger (18 month old) brother’s Lego Mountain. After she destroyed his mountain, he just hauled off and nailed her with a right jab in the eye as I stood stunned just a few feet away. Without a word from me, he walked himself into the time-out chair and grumbled on and on. Every once in a while he would turn around, raise his fist in the air and issue baby gibberish threats to the Last Amazon. She never again interfered with his Lego Mountain.

I was also forced to acknowledge by the time I had two sons that the male mind really does approach problems differently than the female mind. Before I had the second son, I put down the differences between the male and female minds as all due to the socialization process. Two sons tipped the balance. It’s like this; the bookcases looked cool to climb to the Last Amazon. She tries once when my attention is on other matters; falls and deduced that it was a bad idea. The sons’ perceive the bookcases as a mountain to be conquered at all costs and they are prepared to pay any price to crown themselves King of the Bookcases. See the bookcases, take the bookcases; or die in the attempt. It did not matter how many times they were thwarted or injured, they refused to give up. Each time they went into the assault with the premise that this time it will end in triumph.

In the course of raising two sons less than two years apart I was forced to develop the “voice”. My mother referred to it as that “awful Sgt’s voice” and was appalled when I used it to enforce rules or order. She came for Christmas one year when the Last Amazon was about 4 and a half and insisted that she wanted to take the children and I out to a nice lunch at a “real restaurant” (no McDonald’s for her) and I was not to use the “voice” under any circumstances. She would show me how to control the children without the voice. Right off the bat, I insisted it was a bad idea and pointed out that she had no experience in raising sons but she insisted she knew better than I and she had forgotten more than I had learned.

Off to the Olive Garden we went. Within 20 minutes the boys had taken total control of the restaurant and were in a free fire zone. Despite her best efforts, she could not mentally or physically control the boys’ ability to run, use their throwing arms, dart, squirm, or drop and roll. She conceded defeat and demanded I used the voice in a loudest voice I had ever heard her use. Within seconds of using the “voice” I had them and every other man in the room sitting straight in their chairs with their hands folded in their lap. That was the last time we went to a restaurant until the children were significantly older. She also gave me a free pass with the voice from then on.

One of the biggest challenges I have had to face has been the issue of fighting. This is where I just might have to concede defeat. I never forgot one of many melees when Montana was about 3 years old. I was explaining patiently that fighting is bad, wrong, bad, and he turned to me and said, “But, Momma, I like to fight, fighting is fun.” Ah, I thought, now I have got him, and patiently explained that when you fight you can get hurt, and you don’t like to get hurt do you? He lifted his soft brown eyes into mine and very earnestly said, “No, I don’t like getting hurt but I sure do feel a lot better when I hit’em back! In the end, I was forced to rely on that old parental standby, superior fire power triumphs all. You fight, I fight you. That worked fine until he went off to school and was no longer under my eye.

We have lived in this 19th century townhouse in the downtown eastside of Toronto for the past 10 years. There are many advantages to living here but the one downside has been that the Catholic School he attends is also a feeder school to three of the toughest housing projects in the city. I was forced to reach back into my childhood and make him learn the kid’s rules of fighting. Don’t fight girls, any one younger or smaller, anyone with glasses, physical impairments, and don’t ever throw the first punch. That worked more or less okay. He never started a fight, though he never did learn the art of standing down or walking away. It also made him a big hit with the girls and younger kids. Anyone pick on a girl or a younger child and Montana was in their face, ready to go.

During my son’s early years his father kept me calm, sane and out of jail. I remember one call from the school when I was informed that my son had been injured in a fight and I should pick him up and perhaps seek medical attention for his injuries. Turns out, he was playing with his friends when another little boy just came up and clawed him down the face over his eyes for no reason. Apparently, after the little boy clawed him, Montana threw him on the ground and pinned him down till the bell rang. Montana went to class and was sitting in the back with his sweatshirt hood over his face. The other little boy went to the principal to report that Montana threw him on the ground. The principal called Montana’s teacher and asked her to send him to the office. It was at that point the teacher realized Montana had blood running down his face. It all worked out in the wash. The little boy was suspended for fighting and Montana’s faced healed up but I was ready to call the boy’s parents and give them a good what for…..it was Montana’s father who held me back. He sat me down and explained that this is how boys bonded. They beat each other up and then became best friends and I should just chill myself out. He very patiently explained that he had beat up all his friends at one point or another and today; they would die for each other. Frankly, I thought it was the daftest thing I had ever heard. The thing was, he was right. Within a few weeks the two of them were fast friends and remain so to this day. Over and over again this scenario was repeated and Montana’s collection of friends grew and grew. The strangest part is that they are some of the nicest boys you could ask for. Helpful, polite, respectful, hardworking and yet, they all love nothing better than to make fun of each other and pommel each other senseless the minute grown-ups eyes wander off them.

All of which brings me to a decision I made last week. I got the dreaded call from a new principal. Montana had been fighting at school and was suspended for one day. The worse part, at least in my mind, was that for the first time in his life he started the fight. He was fooling around with one of his friends, they were calling each other names and Montana gave his friend a shove, the boy shoved back. Montana shoved harder and the boy hit his head. Then he punched Montana which turned out to be the punch that crossed the line from horseplay to fighting. Thank the Lord that neither boy was hurt, and they both have had a turn washing my floors and walls. And yes, they are still friends.

I admit to being a little more than angry and frustrated myself. Partially it is at a school system that won’t allow boys any physical activities where they can blow off steam. No football, soccer, hockey, baseball, dodge ball, or any other kind of game that “promotes aggression” or the “possibility of injury”. Volleyball and cross country running are all well and good but they are seasonal, and frankly, to a lot of boys; it blows. I do understand that not all boys are the “physical” sort but more are than not. While I realize no parent wants their child injured; it just seems that by denying that boys really do need a way to physically deal with aggression, you set them up for horseplay which eventually leads to fighting. How can anyone expect boys to spend all recess at the wall or standing around chatting about the weather?

This time I don’t have Montana’s father to steady me or give me the dreaded whacked male perspective, and quite honestly, I cannot begin to fathom what his advice would be. So I am left to muddle on my own on what to do with son and his love of fighting. I thought about enrolling him in a martial arts program. He did take karate when he was younger but he really didn’t like it much; not enough of challenge and he complained that they really didn’t fight. So what I did was call a boxing club. I took him to the club on Saturday to register him. At first, the coach was reluctant to register him and wanted to give him a week to think it over. The coach’s mouth dropped when I told him that my son didn’t have a choice. He loves to fight and I want him to do it all in the club and not in school. What was supposed to be a half hour session turned into a three hour ordeal with a different coach every hour. They didn’t let up on my son. Every once in a while a coach would pick up a water bottle and squirt water in his mouth. He was in constant motion. By the third hour, Montana entered the ring and watching him spar with a coach I saw an expression cross his face I had never seen before. He never looked so mean, and yet, so utterly euphoric. That thought caused a chill to run down my back and I was struck that perhaps I was watching biology being made destiny.

Near the end of the session, the first coach sits down besides me and tells me that they will take care of him at the club and boxing can be a great life. He’s traveled all over the world by boxing. Frankly, I thought that the coach should have made ducking a punch a bit more of a priority than he obviously had in his own career and made a note to tell Montana to make it a priority. When the coach finally called my son out of the ring he asked me for the school telephone number and the principal’s name. He warned my son that if they find out he’s fighting in school he will be suspended from the club. I would have thought Montana would be exhausted (I know I was from watching) but no, he was walking on clouds.

He’s been back twice this week and each time I have had to go drag him out of the gym when he failed to come home when he was expected. I try to comfort myself by saying there are worse things; it could be drugs, drinking or even floozy girls. But no matter how hard I try; I don’t understand the appeal of bashing someone over and over again, but then again, I loved ballet.