The Difference Between Boys and Girls

Raising a boy is such an adventure. Okay, I'm compelled to scratch that; partly because raising any human being is in itself an indescribably enlightening, adventurous experience - and also because I'm slightly afraid of offending all the Mummies with girls. You just don't mess with Mums... Mums are scary people, I tells you *shudder*. Not so long ago, I was the fairly meek, tolerant, step-all-over-me-why-don't-you? type. And then I became a Mum and I hulkified... godzillafied... avengerfied even.

Is this a form of ADD or what? What was I saying? Oh yeah. Raising a boy is so interesting. I'm the youngest of 4 siblings, only 1 of whom is a boy and one 11 years my elder at that. Every day with my little man is a refreshing insight into the mind of a tiny member of the male species! I hate to disappoint everyone, but it really isn't all that different... yet ('wait till those hormones come into play', I can hear you think). Like everyone else out there, I've heard all the old wives tales of how boys do everything later than girls. I've read all the articles trying to justify why this is so and I've also admittedly pushed my poor little munchkin to his limits on occasion to prove the world wrong ('Walk, you lazy, little bum... WALK! No?? Drop and give me twenty!!'). But it's just not true, I tell ya. What they did get right in all those books, forums and tales is that every child is unique. Mine walked late, but has a vocabulary that takes after his Mum *ahem*.. No surprises there. 

Why not push them, I say... Boys, girls, whatever. We didn't get this far in life by making excuses, did we? Well, ok, some of us did. And the ones that didn't, slacked off too sometimes. But mostly, we got here because our parents pushed us to be the best we could be. Our Mums didn't go through 9 months of carrying us inside, indescribable pain to bring us out in the world, so many years of putting up with our tantrums and torturous teenage years just to watch us make excuses for all we can't do and be. They didn't bail us out of undoubtedly humiliating situations, spend so much hard-earned money and sacrifice the better part of their lives just to see that the fruit of their labour is in fact just a vegetable. Even vegetables these days are injected with God-knows-what to make them nicer to look at, smarter, healthier and more likely to get somewhere in the world (ok, not smarter, but you get the point). That was possibly one of the lamest examples I've ever given. Someone kill me now.

I don't have a girl, but this is what I feel the difference is so far: Boys are a little less sure of themselves, a little more reckless, a little less manipulative, a little less sensitive, a little less in-tune with their emotions, a lot more stubborn and A LOT louder. 

Wow. 

Now that I've put down those thoughts, I'm sensing the difference between boys and girls at this age however subtle, when put into retrospect, does seem to perfectly magnify as they get older, doesn't it? 

P.S. Sorry, I haven't mentioned fathers in there somewhere whilst listing the countless sacrifices Mums make for their kids. No discredit to the dads, but if I'd done that, I might as well have called this the Diary of a Faddy Daddy ;) 

Illnesses and the Joys of Curing Them

After a blissful (?) year, I can't say I have been the unluckiest Mum in the world. I've successfully managed to steer my little one clear of  diaper rashes, common colds (minus the odd sniffles now and then) and all the other dreaded diseases that so many infants and toddlers pick up in their first 2 years. That's 21 months of health and happiness..... along with crying, wailing, tantrums, embarrassing-poopy-incidents-in-public and all that jazz. 

Imagine my dismay when I walked into my bedroom and saw him holding a bottle of open aftershave having apparently licked it, or sipped it (I can only assume) with a mischievous grin on his face. But like any Super-Mum (admit it, you think you're one too, just like me *grin*), I calmly explained how dangerous it was and put him down for a nap. However, at some point during his baby-slumber, he transformed into something of a wailing monster and woke up only to throw up all over himself and me and I rushed him to the A&E (like any Super-Mum who just realised she isn't so Super after all would do). I proceeded to explain to the nurses that he had sipped some aftershave ('that's a first!', they said, followed by 'Issey Miyake? Good choice!' *wink* to my husband) and had vomited and become feverish and to my absolute horror (read: humiliation), I was told that he had NOT in fact had a sip, and was actually suffering from tonsillitis. Out the drain went my entire Super-Mum theory and took with it my diagnosis, sponsored by Google :/ I will never believe you again, Google. You have bitterly disappointed me. 

The moral of this rather long story/rant is: God works in mysterious ways. Had I not caught Zyer with that blasted aftershave, I would have blamed everything on teething (as usual) and let it get dreadfully worse before I finally decided to show him to a doctor, at which point he would presumably have been prescribed with antibiotics and I shudder to think what that would have been like for the two of us. 

So I'm not Super-Mum - *sheepish smile* - and neither are you.

Oh, Hell! Of course we are!! We continue to wing it, and Google everything small and big we know nothing about (and we know very little, it has to be admitted). We cure fevers through soaked strips of cloth, warm baths, lots of Ibuprofen and TLC. We kiss the bruises, koochikoo those tiny emotional traumas, and hug away the tears and the fears. And we continue to be amazing.

God works in mysterious ways....... through those itty-bitty terrors, and through us.