Wednesday 30 April 2014


Day by day the King is doing his best to remind me, or his genetics are, that he is becoming well aware of his maleness. I always knew that having grown up with five sisters, there would be areas of raising a boy that I simply did not understand, or shall we say, relate to. On the other hand, having been a tomboy myself, I also knew that I’d be well skilled to handle a boy's physicality. Not one to rush off to do my nails or adorn myself in pink, I figured I wouldn’t be wading into too foreign of waters. As irony would have it, my son embraces pink and purple more than I do and we often argue when we’re out and about if I don’t pick the purple option (he’s still disappointed in the black phone case I chose the other day and makes sure to bring it up often that there was a purple option to be had).

But in other arenas, he’s definitely reminding me that he is indeed male and I’ve begun turning towards his father with a helpless look on my face when I find myself at a loss. Like it or not, when you raise a boy (there are exceptions to this obviously on both sides of the gender fence), there comes a point when they start becoming obsessed with their…well, package, shall we say. And as much as you tell them not to touch it, talk about it, or try to share it with the public, they will still manage to either get it into conversation or simply walk around trying to hold it. This fixation then spreads to their realization that not everyone has what they have; in the King’s case, this realization starts at home. Whereas I used to happily jump in the bath with him (when one is exhausted at the end of the day, it’s far easier to get in the tub and let your child pour water on your head while you feign you are awake), it got to the point where the questions were getting too difficult to field. Not to mention, he then wanted to go through his entire set of friends and discuss who had what. Despite a 20-minute protestation on my part, he is still convinced that his best girlfriend has the same parts that he has. It got to the point that I had to call his girlfriend’s mother in front of him so she could confirm that her daughter was indeed that.

The amusement of course does not stop there, or shall I say, the confusion. From asking me why Spiderman has boobs (I tried to explain that some muscles look like boobs and vice versa) to why all the goats at the zoo don’t have balls, the world of anatomy can become a tiresome minefield. The King of course realizes this and thinks it’s a hysterical game now to interrogate me about biology. The other thing you start to notice when raising a boy is the sheer erratic power of testosterone. The King is a very tactile, sweet little boy all around, but then he is suddenly overcome with the ‘surge’ as I call it, and next thing you know, your son has turned into a growling lion and is trying to beat a tree with a stick. There is no point in denying it as a parent, it’s simple biology and you may as well go with it. The other day, he and his best male buddy were playing and the next thing I know, his friend was having a moment of his own and was squishing the King's face purely because his friend couldn’t be the ‘first’ at something (ohhh, the first. that’s a whole different blog that is highly intriguing).

Then there is the sheer hysterical dichotomy that lives within the King (or most kids for that matter). From constantly singing and professing his love to me with a gentle stroke of my face, to trying to wrestle me to the ground like a crazed game hunter, things are certainly never dull. The other day this dichotomy truly hit home in the most hysterical way, when he looked at me wistfully and said, ‘Oh mama, look at that beautiful flower;’ followed by… ‘Let’s kill it!’ You see, never dull.

I figure as long as he can still see the beauty in things, I can do my utmost to channel the rest. Here’s to Mars and Venus. 

Copyright © 2014 Anthea Anka - Delighted And Disturbed