I find it interesting how children
interact with their parents.
When my boys were younger, it was clear
their mom and I each had particular roles to play.
If they wanted to wrassle, roughhouse,
or generally do things of a testosterone nature they came to yours
truly.
I can remember one instance when the
boys, who were around eight and six at the time, were using me as
their personal wrestling dummy.
They would attack in tandem and I would
fend off the assaults that came from every direction imaginable.
I stopped the action and asked why they
never wrestle their mom this way.
My oldest stopped, looked at me and
with all seriousness said, “Because we love mom.”
The younger one agreed and the assault
resumed.
It's not that they didn't love me, but
they decided it was my role to give them noogies while holding them
in a headlock.
It was mom's job to provide a more
nurturing role.
As little guys, they determined mom was
the giver of affection and dad was the jungle gym, punching bag and
wrestling mat.
Their mom also took on the role of
academic assistant. When they needed help with their math homework or
something of that nature, they ran straight to mom.
This had nothing to do with me being
the dad, but everything to do with mom being a lot smarter than I am.
However, when they needed help
repairing their bike (later on their cars) they came to me, because
while their mom makes me look the intellectual equivalent of a
neanderthal with a learning disability, I am fairly handy with tools.
I spent a lot of time fixing my own
bikes and cars over the years, so I could apply that knowledge to
assisting my spawn.
And while they interact differently us,
my wife and I interact with them differently.
Being boys, I expected them to come
home with scrapes, bruises and the occasional boo-boo.
If they were walking, talking had all
their appendages and assorted body parts, I would generally say
“You're OK.”
And they were – aside from a few
minor injuries that is.
I witnessed many of my dad friends do
the same thing with their kids.
“You're OK, now pick up your spleen
and put your bike away.”
Of course, if the injury was more than just a minor boo-boo, I knew exactly what to do.
Of course, if the injury was more than just a minor boo-boo, I knew exactly what to do.
“Where's your mom!”
Mom would then rush in, assess the
situation and apply whatever type of care is needed. From a Bandaid
to a hug, mom could cover it all.
It's not that dad's don't care, they
just do things a little differently than their female
counterpart.
For example, my oldest son loved to climb trees when he was small and the apple tree in front of our home was a perfect place to hone his skills as a monkey.
One day he fell out of the tree, a distance of about two metres. I ran to the window in time to see him get up, dust himself off and give me a big grin.
I made sure he had not hit is head or broken anything before giving my official diagnosis of “You're OK.”
When I told his mom about it a couple hours later, she called him over for an examination that came just short of a full body CT scan.
When she was done, she reached the same conclusion I did, he was OK.
I hate to say I told you so, but...
For example, my oldest son loved to climb trees when he was small and the apple tree in front of our home was a perfect place to hone his skills as a monkey.
One day he fell out of the tree, a distance of about two metres. I ran to the window in time to see him get up, dust himself off and give me a big grin.
I made sure he had not hit is head or broken anything before giving my official diagnosis of “You're OK.”
When I told his mom about it a couple hours later, she called him over for an examination that came just short of a full body CT scan.
When she was done, she reached the same conclusion I did, he was OK.
I hate to say I told you so, but...
Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh
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