Rocket Man

My apologies to NPR.

Several years ago (as in, pre-Elijah), I was listening to Talk of the Nation, where the topic was brain differences between boys and girls. Though I was not a parent, even I could see that, yes, they certainly did seem to be quite different creatures. (I realize this is a matter of great controversy, mainly because some people seem to think there's something inherently sexist in pointing out these differences. To those people, all I can say is -- get a life.)

I don't remember much of the program, but one comment by a child development researcher did stick in my brain: "Boys have an innate need to move objects through space."

This sounded so ludicrous that I nearly snorted out my latte. (Back when gas was $2 a gallon and lattes could be had for a mere $2.50, Starbucks was a big part of my life.) Other than laughing over it, though, I didn't really think much about it.

Then I had a boy.

So now it can be said: NPR was right, and I was wrong.

If you happen to be the mother of a young male of the species, you might well have made the same mistake I did: Repeatedly buying toys that sound fun to YOU, a former little girl, without stopping to think that your intended gift recipient isn't just from Mars -- he's probably from another galaxy altogether. (The whole Mars-Venus thing might apply to men and women, but certainly not to boys and girls. Mars and Venus are much too close to each other for this metaphor to work with 5-year-olds.)

Anyway, I eventually came to the realization that games, puzzles, books and such really don't hold much appeal to someone whose idea of torture is sitting quietly and, heaven forbid, taking turns in a socially cooperative atmosphere. I began to notice that when we visited the homes of friends with little boys, Elijah was absolutely overjoyed to be in the presence of projectile toys that could be launched through the air like rockets, particularly if that air happened to be indoors, increasing the likelihood of something being hit. It was all I could do to drag him back home to a house filled with quiet, introspective toys intended to develop his "creativity and problem-solving skills." (Yes, that's directly off the box. Several boxes, actually. I think there exists somewhere a random toy-marketing phrase generator, and this is one of its most common outputs.)

This "innate need to move objects through space" actually goes a long way toward explaining the typical male's fascination with sports, a fascination that frankly baffles me. I'd rather watch paint dry than sit and watch a game of any kind. (At least if I were watching paint dry, that would mean that we were making home improvements.)

So for our little male's most recent birthday, I finally caved in and bought -- as cheaply as I could manage -- a toy involving things flying through the air. I kid you not when I say that this gift, which I spent all of $5 on at Target, produced more excitement per penny than perhaps anything he's ever received (granted, he doesn't get electronic things like GameBoys and XBoxes and Wiis, so that may be a factor here). It was nothing more than a bunch of long, skinny balloons and a pump-style inflator. When the balloons are inflated and then released, they go zooming around and around and up and down until they're deflated, which usually takes about 10 seconds. But wow! Is that ever an exhilarating 10 seconds! And as a value-added feature, they also make disgusting human-body noises as they go zipping around! How cool is THAT???!!

I would love to post photos here of the joy on the faces of the 5 boys (including the guest of honor) as they leaped around the backyard at the party, chasing the balloons
that were repeatedly inflated by increasingly tired but devoted dads, while we moms all sat around drinking wine. (This is my idea of what a birthday party should be. Not just because we moms deserve a drink, but because in an era filled with birthday party "activities" like inflatable moonwalks, arts and crafts, clowns, balloon artists, scavenger hunts and pony rides, I'm the anti-Mom. One child at this party actually came up and asked me, "When are we going to do the activities?" I pointed to all the toys spread across the lawn and said, "See those toys? See that yard? There's your activities! Now go be active!")

Where was I? Oh, yes, the photos. It turns out that the excitement level was such that even the "kids and pets" setting on our features-laden digital camera -- specifically designed for subjects that refuse to be still for a second -- couldn't focus fast enough to get any good shots. So you'll just have to take my word for it. These low-tech, cheap and simple balloons were a HIT.

You're probably beginning to wonder what the point of this story is. It's basically to illustrate that, based on an incident that happened just yesterday, I STILL have not learned my lesson about the differences between boys and girls.

Elijah and I needed to make a stop at the grocery store on the way home from the gym. Grocery shopping with him is never a pleasant task, mostly because there are way too many potential projectiles in these stores. Just think about the produce section alone!

Anyway, we had just stepped inside when I spotted a mother and daughter beginning their shopping. The little girl couldn't have been more than 3, so I figured that, if he were having a really good day, 5-year-old Elijah MIGHT be almost as mature as her. He was climbing all over the cart, demanding to be pushed while he found increasingly dangerous ways to hang off the front, edges and sides of the thing while simultaneously begging for Oreos and ice cream.

The little girl, meanwhile, was proudly pushing one of those miniature carts designed to start children on their path to consumerhood at an early age. Wow, I thought. Perhaps if I get one for Elijah, he will stop hanging off this cart and I can get some shopping done.

I really don't know what I was thinking. I can only say that I had just worked out, and my blood sugar was perhaps a bit low, influencing my powers of reasoning. I got the little cart, gave it to Elijah and instantly unleashed a force of potential devastation on the entire store. After all, here was the ultimate projectile -- it had four wheels, would roll for a really long way really fast if you gave it a hard push, and there were all sorts of incredibly cool things to run into. Displays full of glass jars! Towering stacks of peaches! A big shelf full of freshly baked bread!

Needless to say, the entire experiment lasted less than three minutes. Thankfully, nothing got broken or severely damaged, but in those three minutes, Elijah managed to ram the cart into three display cases, partly dismantle it while trying to determine what exactly was holding the sides together, knock it over onto himself while trying to propel himself down an aisle as he stood on the lower bar while gripping the handlebar, and nearly fall out of it after he climbed into the center of it and bent over, hands firmly on a wall, preparing to push himself as hard as he could across the produce section.

So, once the "Mommy's little helper" cart was returned, more or less in one piece, to the cart stacks, I proceeded through the store in our usual manner, constantly telling Elijah to slow down, put that back, pick those things up off the floor and please quiet down about the Oreos and ice cream. As usual, the most stressful part of our journey occurred in the frozen foods aisle, where he opened each display case door and drew pictures in the fog that forms on the inside. This is by far his favorite grocery store pastime. He could literally spend all day drawing pictures in frozen-food display case fog.

On several occasions, we crossed paths with Little Miss Goody Two-Shoes. She was primly prancing behind her mother, carefully pushing her little cart, which was filled with (I swear I am not making this up) fresh produce and organic snack foods. I tried to point her out to Elijah, saying things like "Look at that cute little girl! I'll bet she's just 3 years old! Look at how nicely she's helping her mommy! And I'll bet she's going to eat every one of those vegetables when she gets home!"

He wasn't buying it. And, truthfully, neither was I. But it is my duty to try to channel my action-loving little boy's energy into civilized behavior, so I gave it my best shot.

Truthfully, though, I've come to appreciate his love for projectiles over primness. He is a boy, after all, and I think way too many people want little boys to be like little girls (see also: Ritalin, Concerta, Aderall, etc.).

I don't know when my little rocket man will calm down enough to make grocery shopping a pleasant experience.

But I think it's gonna be a long, long time.