I started wondering the other day about that whole "men are from Mars, women are from Venus" dichotomy. You'd think this wouldn't exactly be a sudden flash of insight, what with our daily exposure to standup one-liners about the difference between the sexes, and Today show segments/magazine covers featuring some self-proclaimed sexpert with Chiclet teeth tanned to within an inch of her life explaining (yet again) that men are "wired differently" than women. P.S.-WE GET IT. Enough talk about putting the toilet seat down. Christ.
No, what really got me pondering was the verbal stylings of my three year old. So here's the scenario: I have two boys. They are small. My house, as you can imagine, is littered with toys...HOWEVER...there is very little discrimination as far as trucks vs. dolls, sports equipment vs. pink ponies, Maxim magazines vs. an intelligent publication without airbrushed cleavage. Whatever. Point is, I don't go out of my way to eradicate girly materials from my house just because I'm the only one here with a uterus. Sometimes the boys get into my makeup and we spend a little time playing "Robert Smith" to appease both their silly side and my Cure fascination. Sometimes we end up getting a Polly Pocket in our Happy Meals instead of a Matchbox car. My attitude thus far has been sort of "wait and see"; in a way, this has been a gleeful opportunity to test some theories about gender differences and the nature vs. nurture debate. They have a choice between Dora and Diego? I stand aside and watch. Princess or hairy monster? I keep my mouth shut. So far they've been able to take the helm as far as personal choices about these things (except for those few times I've run across old Halloween pictures of my better half and they ask why Daddy is wearing a pink frilly outfit like Bo-Peep wears to collect her sheep...and that conversation I plan to save for a later date in order to consolidate it with both the "drinking" talk and the "importance of donating funds to your local police force to ensure a moderate bail" talk. It promises to be a long one).
So in my quest to play Dian Fossey a la Gorillas in the Mist, I stand back on the playground and eavesdrop, carefully taking mental notes while fishing around for a sippy cup or giving the stinkeye to some hooligan that used my younger son as a mop to clean off the slide. There's always much to be learned just by observing, like the way you spy on someone in traffic when they have no idea you're looking and they start picking their nose. Very beneficial. One particular day I caught wind of this heartfelt exchange:
Little girl (clad in outfit covered in unnecessary amount of sparkles and flowers):
"Hey, I know...let's play house. You be the daddy and I'm the mommy and that kid is our baby."
My son (making dinosaur noises in her face while she's talking):
"Ummmm...No. Dat's my brother."
Little girl (twirling naked doll around as if doll needs to "work it" for tips):
"No, he's our baby! I'm the mommy."
My son (now literally scratching the side of his head):
"So. Uh. I'm gonna go over dere now."
So goes his encounters with the "older women" of the playground. With the exception of one friend who happens to be his age and happens to be able to pile-drive him to the floor and happens to be a girl, there seems to be a divide forming that will probably get nice and wide as they get older. I've decided I'm arguing on the side of "nature" since so much of their personalities are just there, and just so ingrained that I'm accepting that they'll be who they are (and if that involves a Bo-Peep outfit at any point in the future, so be it. I know who to blame for that, anyway).
