Boys and Girls

If you have children, have you ever thought which one has been easier to raise? Let's face it - both kids can't be a dream to raise. Even if marginal, one must be easier to raise than the other. Some people say that parents fuss more over the first one and that everyone fusses over a lot over the youngest one and that the middle ones get short shrift. Some people say that it is a personality trait - some children are alpha children and therefore are more difficult to raise (are all children beta adults?). Some people give the view that every child presents her/his own challenges.

Based on my two children, I put forward the hypothesis that it is not about the first or second or third child, that it is between girl and boy. In my experience, boys are easier to raise. And I have a girl and a boy, plus have seen, in close proximity, two nieces and one nephew growing up. I think that is also the reason why we have 'Mama's boys' and 'Daddy's girls'. Fathers get the thin end of the wedge.

I'll start with an example. My son and daughter both used the same playpen growing up. I remember when he was a few months old and had started to stand up in his playpen, my son would call out when he got bored. I would throw in a ball and he would keep himself busy for the next half an hour. Cut to three and some years later. Same playpen, daughter replacing son inside it. She gets bored, stands up and calls out. I throw in the same ball that has served me so well with Tiger. She looks at me as if I were slightly stupid, but still likable. She bends, picks up the ball, throws it out and looks at me expectantly. I learnt the hard way that this is not the beginning of a game of tossing the ball back and forth. Her tossing the ball out was terminal. It had been dismissed from her presence. She did not want the ball back. She wants to be talked to.

I still have not come to terms with this 'talking' part. My son shows great restraint with language. Just because he can use it doesn't mean he does use it. When he does use it, he doesn't expect too much of a response. I am rather proud of this. My wife says he gets it from me. My daughter, on the other hand, wants to talk. Ever since she was three months old. She still can't speak, but loves to talk. Or loves having me talk to her. I don't know what to talk to her about. We have very few common interests. She doesn't watch cricket. She has not read anything of note. Our musical tastes are poles apart - except for Indian Classical (she likes to sing along with Ustad Bade Ghulam Ali Khan Sahib).

Whenever I hold her, she turns around and looks at me, expectantly. She wants me to say something intelligent. She is usually disappointed. She gurgles, coos and makes assorted vocalizations. Her expression says it is a story she is telling, one that I am hopeless at interpreting or responding to. She reaches out for the mother and complains about me. To her credit, she doesn't give up and tries every day.

Take babysitting. Watching over my son when my wife was away was a dream. If my wife went away for two hours, it meant I needed to toss a ball or some other toy into his playpen between four to six times between her leaving and coming back. She almost always came back to find a happy baby and a happy father. It gave me enough time to take naps, watch movies, surf the internet - enough time to do whatever I wanted in half an hour instalments. And if he wanted to sleep, he went ahead and slept.

No such luck with my daughter. Wife now comes back after a shopping soiree to find a worn out father and a daughter literally pulling my hair out. Yes, because I am trying desperately to get her to sleep. Her favourite mode of sleeping is to suck her thumb while trying to pull my hair out. If she can't get a firm grip on my hair, she can't sleep.

Take feeding. When my son was as old as my daughter is now, all I had to do was put some white liquid in his bottle and he would wade into it with enthusiasm. Buying formula for the son was the easiest thing in the world. Walk down the aisle and pick a box. Any box. My daughter, on the other hand, is picky. She has settled, after much trial and error (blood, toil, tears and sweat for the parents), on one particular brand of formula. All others she rejects by spitting them out. A six month old baby is not supposed to be able to spit. I guess the folks who wrote the book on what six-month old infants are supposed to do did not try the wrong formula.

Take clothes. My boy wears what's on top, unless of course it does not have a car, truck, train or airplane drawn on it. In which case he goes to the next item of clothing and so on till the 'automobile on front' condition is satisfied. Girls choose. Clothes that match. And Shoes. And Socks. And hairbands. And nail colour. And bags. And if what they want is not done, they will get it done. Even if it means war. This is also borne out in life. Go to any shop that specializes in children's clothes. You will typically see three pitiful racks with boy's clothes, including all sizes 12 months to 12 years. The rest of the two thousand square feet would be girls' dresses and accessories.

With boys, I have seen that their major aim in life is how to injure themselves in newer, more innovative ways. There is stress when boys are growing up, but it is a uniform kind of stress:

"What has he done now?" and "I guess I'll pay for that," being common lines to keep in handy along with keeping the family doctor and dentist on speed-dial.

Girls are different. Their objective is to prove that their fathers are 'simple'. I can never forget that at age three my niece knew in numerical terms, more shades of pink and purple than I knew colours in toto, counting any colour that ever crossed paths with me. She would tell me detailed stories about what she did. Even if she went to the zoo, she'd tell me what the animals said, give me a brief character sketch of the individual giraffes and give me gossip that the zebras and lions did not get along. It was she who first informed me that lions were 'tawny'. I thought tawny was a port with lions being yellow or orange depending upon whether you used rich colour settings in your TV or not.

The problem I think narrows down to the fact that Girls Know Too Much. That in itself is not bad, but what really compounds the problem is their willingness, nay eagerness to 'Share' what they know.

I am not against this 'sharing' per se, but I get enough of it top down from the wife. I don't see why I should get more of it bottom up from the daughter as well. And I know that I am not alone.

A few days ago, we went to a park that had a play area for kids, featuring two large slides. The entry to the slides was up in a tree house. My son was busy throwing himself down the slide in various ways, running back up the ladder as soon as his feet hit the ground. There was a gentleman there with his twin daughters, who were about six or seven. Somewhat reluctantly all three of them trooped up to mouth of the slides using the stairs (the long way) instead of the ladder and stood there, uncertainly. The father made ineffectual attempts at getting the daughters to slide down. The daughters considered it, then effectually refused. This gentle tug of war continued for a few minutes till one of the daughters spied some chairs made of driftwood nearby. "Let's have a tea-party!" was the dual proclamation. I saw colour visibly drain from the father's face. He had unwittingly entered a domain wholly unfamiliar to him and one that was likely to remain thus. He had possibly brought his girls to the tree house so he could spend time with them his way and some nutcase had put furniture there. I wished I had a bottle of beer I could give to him to help him through the tough time he was due to face, but I didn't have one. So I did the gallant thing and withdrew.

In another six months my daughter will be walking and talking. I have a good mind to write to the people running the park to get rid of the chairs in the tree house.