I don’t know what happened, but I came home from work one day and this little baby of mine, somehow, became a boy. Not just a sweet, smiling, snuggling baby that might occasionally send a stream of pee through the air onto the walls and into my face as we dressed him in a blue onesie.
He is a boy. He is all boy. We cannot train our children to relate to whatever gender genetics has decided to assign them by giving them dolls or trucks and assume they’ll find something to identify with. My little boy, he is very clearly and innately a boy. I guess you could say that maybe he is identifying with the traits we’ve stereotypically assigned in society to our two genders, but I would like to think, at this point, that it is truly my little boy finding his way into his own boyish identity.
And so, rough and tumble rolling around, loudly making his presence known, flinging around food-filled spoons, and banging on things with all his might could possibly a standard nine-month old baby thing, but I submit to the notion that really, he is finding himself. I see it in his eyes. Screaming at me in the grocery store because he is stuck in the child seat of the shopping cart, when he’d much rather run screaming up and down the aisles knocking over boxes of cereal and opening candy wrappers to shove in his mouth. I see it. Somewhere inside that tiny sweet little noggin of his is a wilde little boy, digging in the dirt, collecting worms and lizards, coloring on the walls, running around screaming like a banshee with a super hero cape on and nothing else, all while making moony eyes at his gullible mama for a 5th chocolate chip cookie.
Oh yes, you had better believe it. I see it. I see that fiery spirit already making its way out of the tiny glimmer in his eyes, and into a tangible, muddy, active little boy. I see it all right. There’s no denying it.