Ninja

My brother in law, Eric, was with my son in his room looking at his toys, when Eric discovered a pair of poop-encrusted underwear lying on the floor.

“Alex, what happened here,” Eric asked, amused and just a little disgusted.

“Oh, those got pooped, that’s all. Wanna see my light saber?”

* ** ** ** *

When I had my daughter, I would hear other mothers discuss their little boys and how very foreign they are to their feminine sensibilities. They would talk of their sons the same way someone who had just adopted a monkey would discuss her new situation. Little boys, I discerned, are little aliens and no amount of cuddling or hair combing would make them any more familiar to their mothers.

Hearing this made me a bit uneasy, but not alarmed. After all, kids are kids. Sure, there are some basic plumbing differences between boys and girls, but both eat, sleep and have to have their fingernails trimmed. Still, I was thankful for my little girl, who never needed baby proofing and was always in the same place that I left her.

I got pregnant the second time having already raised my daughter to age five. When I discovered my second baby would be a boy, I freaked out for a second and then mentally reassured myself that I was a mother and could handle any maternal situation. I had a living child to prove my competence, so I tried to let go of the penis anxiety I was feeling. The penis on the sonogram looked cute and innocent enough, not intimidating. So, I gave up my worrying and set out on a new adventure.

My anxiety resurfaced the first time a stream of pee shot into the air and into my mouth. Little girls can do many things but they are fairly incapable of blinding whoever has the courage to change their diapers. A little boy’s penis, though, is a cannon and can be remotely aimed. I was in for a rough ride.

Boys do other things besides shoot their pee. Ellen, my daughter, used to create dialogue and drama for objects she found around the house. Alex takes found objects and makes them into weapons and projectiles. One day I found him busily inserting golf tees into all of the electrical sockets. Another day, he was touching paper plates to a hot light bulb and watching them smolder. He broke or lost every vacuum attachment I owned because, in another life, they are perfect ninja swords. My broom no longer has a handle and I’ve completely given up on keeping an inventory of wooden spoons. My son is a weapons master.

Some of Alex’s friends’ mothers worship at the “I would never give my son a toy gun to play with” alter and try desperately to keep their sons away from the tools of war. Hunter, an ironic name for a pacifist, has a mom who won’t even let you say “gun” in her house. She worries that the word might somehow make her little boy into a brandishing psychopath, like is so often the case when other people hear words like “gun,” and “grenade.” Hunter is a frustrated little guy and might just become a psychopath without the aid of knowing nouns. I don’t think Hunter’s mommy pays much attention to him because, if she did, she might notice that her son will chew his sandwich into a Colt .45 and fire it at his play date friends. Alex probably taught him the art of making food into deadly weapons because he’s been making guns out of things for as long as he’s had the ability to verbalize shooting noises. There is nothing that cannot be a gun, knife, sword, light saber, grenade, bow and arrow, throwing star or Daffy Duck bow staff. I feel safe because, in the face of imminent danger, my son has the skills to protect me.

Because I don’t understand the correlation between my adorable four year old and his obsession with annihilating everything in his sight, I worry. I was a child of the seventies; a time when parents were encouraged to “ungender” their children with the stereotypical toys of the day. My parents were urged to give their sons dolls and their daughters train sets. Like Hitler looking for his Aryan race, my parents were asked to create the one, super gender where we could all be happy. Of course, this “utopia” didn’t work. The dolls became victim outlets for the little boys and the trains had families and love affairs and hairdos. Alex has had the opportunity to play with dolls as he has an older sister. First, he removes the head in a not so nurturing fashion. Then, he tears off the limbs, because, what headless doll needs limbs? Now he has five projectiles instead of one.

When we were still a “unichild” family, my husband would lament that Ellen was such a mystery to him. When he gave her his prized collection of Match Box cars, she looked at him quizzically then walked away. He was so disappointed that they couldn’t share something that held such meaning for him. She wasn’t tough, athletic or terribly interested in Husker football, and he was at a loss. Now, I guess it’s my turn to negotiate a relationship I know nothing about. I don’t like sword fighting, even when I get the sword that makes the cool noises and lights up when it hits something. I never learned to shadowbox and possess no discernable hand/eye coordination. I must learn to somehow accept that the little boy for whom I gave up caffeine and chocolate; endured weeklong bouts of heartburn; and slept entirely on my back, is now and will forever be, a ninja.