Because I grew up with two older brothers and now I’m raising three sons, I sometimes think of myself as an honorary male. I have endured enough ABC’s recited with burps and have watched so many hours of big waves on the Weather Channel that I feel as if I could, if I so desired (and I don’t), apply my credits, sort of like a college transfer, to the other sex.
And yet my husband, Dustin, tells me that I don’t understand males at all. He gives the following as examples. You be the judge.
Case 1
At the beginning of this month we took our boys to the TD Garden in Boston to see Star Wars in Concert with the Boston Pops. My boys have been obsessed with Star Wars for more than a year now, but I finally watched all six movies just a few months ago. Had we gone to “Star Wars in Concert” before that, I might have mistakenly referred to Luke and Leia as a couple (they are actually brother and sister). With my newfound knowledge, however, I was “in the know” when we saw a display of Darth Vader’s original costume outside the stadium and I hitched up the waist of my pants, just like one of the guys, and said, “Luke, I’m your father” over and over again. Strangely, the boys ignored me. Later, I referred to the display of snowtroopers as clone troopers, and three sets of eyes rolled, in unison, at me.
After the concert, on the way back to the car, my four boys — Ford, Owen, Lindell and Dustin — were giddily talking over the montage of the droids when I interrupted to say, “And did anyone else feel a lump in their throat during the love song when they showed all those clips of Han Solo and Princess Leia?”
Case 2
Two weeks ago I sat on the couch doing my crossword puzzle while the boys in my family watched the Patriots-Colts football game. My two older boys were rooting for the Colts. My husband was for the Patriots. At some point they wanted to know whose side I was on. I chose the Colts. My explanation: The royal blue color of their uniforms and the simplicity of their emblem is visually appealing. No one paid much attention to me. I think Dustin might have even booed me. (In my defense, I also chose the Colts because the team brings back fond memories of Owen, when he was only 3 years old, picking Johnny Unitas as his favorite player.) So I asked Dustin why he was rooting for the Patriots.
Dustin: “I have a lot of respect for Tom Brady and Bill Belichick and how he runs the organization.”
Me: “So it has nothing to do with their costumes at all?”
Dustin: Silence.
(Note: Dustin would like me to add here that it further proves my ignorance in male matters that I refer to this game without mentioning the controversial fourth-down coaching decision. Whatever that means.)
Case 3
At Ford’s 9th birthday party last week, my only responsibility was to fulfill my self-imposed tradition of baking and decorating the cake. Dustin would handle the rest: swimming with the boys at the University of Maine and choosing what pizza to order at the restaurant. I must say, he did a fantastic job. So it was really unfortunate when I stood up (still inside the busy restaurant) to cut the homemade cake, which had copious amounts of food coloring in it, and said, “Oh, just so you boys know, and because you might want to warn your parents, sometimes the food coloring in the frosting can tint … well, things … when it’s digested.”
I looked up at Dustin. His eyes were as big as doughnuts and he was vigorously waving his arms, gesturing for me to stop talking. He pulled me aside by the arm and said, “Sarah, did you really just tell seven 9-year-old boys that in public? Really? Do you know what you’ve done?”
I didn’t know. Now I do. So do the other diners near us at the restaurant. Apparently the idea of blue frosting tinting one’s digestive process is endlessly funny to third-grade boys. One boy even said, “I cannot WAIT to go to the bathroom tomorrow.” Another: “Make sure my piece has lots of food coloring in it.”
Back home, I went up to my room and escaped the ensuing potty humor while Dustin restored order downstairs. I think he eventually got them talking about sports again. And I thought, maybe Dustin is right. Perhaps I’m hopelessly female after all.
Maine author and columnist Sarah Smiley’s writing is syndicated weekly to publications across the country. She and her husband, Dustin, live with their three sons in Bangor. Her new book, “I’m Just Saying …”, is out in stores now. She may be reached at sarah@sarahsmiley.com.