As I navigate the journey of raising my sons, now 18 and 15, I find myself frequently questioning whether I’ve done enough. The days of their soft baby cheeks have given way to the sharp lines of young men, and during our hugs, I can feel the strength in their shoulders. I often reflect, “They’re good kids,” but doubt nags at me: what if I’m mistaken?
Recently, after a family gathering, my sons inquired if I had wished for a daughter instead. I replied, “I wouldn’t trade either of you for a daughter, but I understand girls better.” Their frowns indicated they anticipated a different answer. One asked, “Aren’t we familiar?” I chuckled at the irony. Unless they become fathers to daughters themselves, they may never grasp the complexities of being a mother to sons.
A daughter would feel familiar—her physicality echoing mine, just as my mother’s body reflects my own. The subtle signs of age on my skin, the shape of my body, all trace back to her. In contrast, my sons’ bodies are foreign to me, muscular and tall. When they rest their feet on the coffee table, I no longer see the tiny feet I adored during their bath times. At times, I feel like Victor Frankenstein, staring at my creations who have developed their own identities and desires.
I’ve poured love and guidance into my sons, hoping to steer them towards viewing women as equals. However, in sleepless moments, I worry that it may not be sufficient. My boys are growing up in an environment where toxic masculinity looms large. What if they unknowingly absorb the belief that their gender grants them superiority?
How can we shield our boys from this harmful mindset? I often ponder the carefree #boymoms I see online. Do they share my concerns about the societal pressures their sons face, or is such anxiety reserved for those navigating the transition from childhood to adulthood?
I feel like I did all the right things during their upbringing. They played with a toy kitchen, donned costumes ranging from dresses to superhero capes, and even embraced diverse interests, one son proudly declaring himself Princess Leia in sparkling shoes. Surely, I thought, that innocence would protect him from the ugliness of misogyny.
Yet, as I reflect on the monstrous figures in literature and media, I realize that children can embody both our hopes and our fears. They are both us and not us, their identities shifting as they grow. Just like the monsters that challenge societal norms, my sons represent the unknown: their future holds both promise and potential peril.
I convince myself that we’ve nurtured them toward a strong moral compass, but then I look around and see figures like Kavanaugh, Weinstein, and others who exemplify the very behavior we fear. How did they become who they are? What guarantees do we have that our sons won’t follow a similar path?
The lingering question persists: have I done enough? I recognize that parents of daughters confront similar worries about preparing their girls for a world where they must navigate male aggression. While I don’t believe that girls are inherently virtuous, I feel less concerned about their potential for violence compared to my sons.
Men, in general, have always made me uneasy, even if only slightly. I hope my boys will emulate the kind, loving men in their lives. Still, the thought that they could stray into the abyss is terrifying. I want to believe they are not capable of being monsters, but I can’t shake my fears.
Conclusion
In summary, the journey of parenting boys comes with its own set of anxieties. It’s a balancing act between nurturing their identities and ensuring they grow up to be respectful, empathetic men. We must confront societal pressures while fostering an environment of love and understanding.
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