Boy Mom

I never saw her coming.

Many years ago, when I was a young mom and new writer, an agent reached out to me about the possibility of writing a book on raising boys. She wanted Catholic-press content, and I’m guessing it was one of those situations where she firsthad a book idea and then went looking for an eligible writer. But I was new to the business and definitely flattered, and we had a very pleasant conversation, after which I realized that I wasn’t quite the writer she was looking for. Or, anyhow, I didn’t want to be.

There’s nothing at all wrong with writing about parenting. I know many great parent-writers in fact, and find many of them very thought-provoking. For me personally, one problem was that I’ve long used writing as a kind of intellectual pressure valve, because I have a lot of interests other than parenting that otherwise would find no suitable outlet. How would that work if I spent all my time either parenting or writing about it? I’m also aware that, as mothers of five go, I’m remarkably non-domestic. I try, truly, but I’m not sure how much value my hacks would have for a mass audience.

There was a further problem though, more important than either of those. I was uncomfortable writing a book on raising successful sons when, after all, I hadn’t done that yet. My older boys were barely out of diapers at that point. Who could say how they’d “turn out”?

So, here’s the really discomfiting part. I don’t feel all that different about it now. How does one raise successful boys?

Alright, so yes, I have five sons now, three of them in their teens. And it’s all going great! I think. Maybe. I mean, in the obvious sense we’re doing okay: They’re all good students, altar boys, student athletes, not on drugs. They’re smart and interesting to talk to. I’m proud of them! I can’t wait to see what their futures hold… except on the days when the thought terrifies me. But I am, if anything, even more leery now of telling other people how to parent. I may toss the occasional thought into a com box, but big-picture this is a tough world for launching boys. Parenting feels more than ever like a perilous enterprise in which all courses may run ill.

I can say this though. “Boy mom” has become a huge part of who I am. I won’t claim that I know how to “raise boys right,” but I do know how to enjoy it. I hope I’ve done a satisfactory job forming them. They’ve certainly done a lot to form me.

Should it be so hard to admit that raising boys can be fun? It feels daring nowadays, even damning. That’s maybe true of parenting generally, but especially for mothers of sons. No other parent-child relationship is scrutinized in quite the same way, especially if anyone anywhere might characterize it as “close.” Warm same-sex parent relationships are presumptively healthy, and a fond daddy-daughter relationship is nearly always viewed as sweet and endearing, but while a mother of sons should obviously be devoted, and shower her boys in unconditional love, the adult relationship should be… well, what exactly? I don’t think people really know, but they’re certainly aware that “too close” is a red flag in this relationship in a way that it just isn’t in any of the others. So where does that leave a mom of boys as they move closer to manhood? We’re supposed to sunset ourselves somehow, so that they can increase and not end up as creepy weirdos at the Bates Motel. Have fun with that, moms!

Which leads me back to the topic of enjoying family life. Is it allowed? No doubt there are approved ways to admit to enjoying parenthood. On the right, for instance, it is highly acceptable to acknowledge the great joy and fulfillment one finds in nurturing small children. Double points if this affirms the goodness of caretaking, particularly as a vocation for women. On the left I think you’re allowed to enjoy watching your kids develop and display certain approved qualities: sensitivity, emotional health, social consciousness, anything that gives leftists Hope For the Future. Across the spectrum it’s broadly permissible to take public joy in your children’s achievements and in the attainment of milestones. Look! The Parental Function has been visibly, successfully fulfilled! Everyone celebrate!

What about just being together? Where does that fit into this picture? This question is especially tough with teens, I think, because as Emergent Adults they’re full-fledged Projects now, and everything’s supposed to be about their future. Also, everyone knows that teens are obnoxious and exhausting and if you enjoy their company that’s probably a sign that you either dominated or over-sheltered them (or both), and will pay the price later. Endure! Defer gratification! That’s supposed to be the ticket at this stage.

Well, whatever. I’m not claiming I’m doing this right, but I like spending time with my kids. They’re interesting and fun, and as they climb up through high school, I feel very motivated to enjoy the time we have before they head off to college, careers, marriage. (Or the Bates Motel? I guess we’ll see.)

In case you too want to enjoy parenting teens, I’ll throw out a few thoughts.

The simplest way to enjoy parenting is to share the things you love with your kids. The books, movies, hiking trails, board games, sports, music, building projects. If you’re into it, get them into it. I also talk to my kids about all the stuff that interests me. At this point my columns are frankly full of ideas I’ve plagiarized from them, which feels perfectly justified because Privacy. Look, so cool! A brain trust you would actually be criticized for crediting.

Likewise, if I’m eyeing a new hobby, I’ll suggest that we try it together. We’ve tried and abandoned quite a few things, but others have stuck. Today I’m heading up state with my eldest son to go scuba diving, which has become an end-of-summer tradition. We have a whole calendar now of traditions built up over time: Fantasy Football and the State Fair in the fall, the St. Francis Party and Turkey at Thanksgiving, Christmas cookies to neighbors, our “monastic” Triduum weekend, the spring dock-raising weekend, the Return of Firework Season. On it goes.

Having fun with my kids was originally something of a survival strategy, because as a Mom of Many, with a job and a writing career, I don’t really have time for purely personal hobbies. Nor do I have much of an adult social life. As a young mom I realized: if I don’t figure out how to enjoy some leisure with my kids, I probably won’t get any at all. In the early days, that leisure often took the form of reading a book at the Children’s Museum while the kids played. They’re a lot more interesting now; they can actually do things. Thus, shared activities have largely replaced the kiddie outings. It helped that I myself got into fitness just as my kids were reaching their teens. Boys like to be active. We play a lot of backyard football.

Your kids won’t always like your favorite things, of course. Sometimes you make the hard sell and they say “meh.” Sometimes they get into it for a while, and then grow out of it. That’s a little melancholy, but do note that they still retain some relevant knowledge, which is potentially valuable even if the enthusiasm never returns. For instance, all of them liked to garden with me when they were younger, but thus far none have retained that zeal for botany into their adolescence. Too bad. But I can still draft them to spend an hour helping me, because they do know how. A neighbor told me recently that an anecdote has been going around the neighborhood, after someone (or perhaps multiple people) saw three of my boys engaged in a lively debate about how to arrange the front flower bed. I’d tasked them with planting a mixed assortment of things I’d acquired from Menard’s. Oblivious to passers-by, they were deep into deliberation about sun and water requirements, optimal spacing, and the height of various plants at maturity. The neighbors were quite amused. “They really seemed to know their stuff!” Well, yeah. Years ago, helping me put in the garden was kind of a big spring event.

Sometimes you wipe out completely. Haven’t had much luck getting them enthused about high culture, e.g. classical music or art museums. I continue to make occasional overtures, for instance by playing classical music in the car. But I also accept that people have different enthusiasms, and art museums probably aren’t the sort of thing that should be forced down people’s throats. It’s not exactly abnormal for teen boys to be less than thrilled by Monet’s haystacks. On the other hand, they love history and Latin, and we read Platonic dialogues together. I’m helping them start a debate team at their school this fall, an outgrowth of their passion for political theory.

So yes, there are misses, but your kids live under your roof for quite awhile. If you persist, you’ll surely get some hits. After so many years of doing things together, hanging out with my kids is quite fun, because they like so many of the things I like, have stances on political and philosophical questions that I find interesting, expect to spend vacations and weekends doing things together. Of course, as they get older, it increasingly becomes a two-way street. So, yes, I have both a running Zelda adventure and a Dungeons and Dragons character. (The boys created her mostly on their own initiative. She’s a Klingon mother of warriors, prone to insane berserker rages during which you do not want to meet that lady. D&D is so time-consuming that I rarely find time to play for long, but they tell me about her epic feats.)

Sometimes without meaning to I’ll find myself falling into their kid lingo. “Oh man, look at the time, we are cooked!”) They all laugh.

Do I worry that I might be doing this wrong? Of course! All the time! “I might be doing this wrong” is pretty much the motto of the modern parent. And I think it’s obvious that my approach to parenting scores higher on “rapport” than “ authority” which is not what the parenting experts are recommending nowadays, but… I don’t know. Was I not supposed to make my family into its own little community? Don’t I have to parent as the person that I am? I don’t think I’m a “gentle parent” really, because I can’t even imagine dragging boys through all those exhausting conversations about feelings, but I might be a bit of a “friend and mentor” parent.

I’m aware that this is almost certainly facilitated by the fact that my husband is far more authoritarian, and they also have teachers, coaches, pastors, Holy Mother Church. A single mom with minimal support would not have the luxury of sliding into a “mentor and cheerleader” role to the extent that I have done. So I’m grateful for that. But “mentor” shouldn’t be confused with “pushover.” I don’t just affirm them all the time, but we do have lots of conversations that might be described as “moral analysis and prudential reasoning,” applied to circumstances in their lives. They get lots of opportunities to talk to me about what’s on their mind. Maybe some upsides to that? I hope?

I do also wonder from time to time what the middle-term looks like for me. I didn’t exactly plan this, just found myself with a passel of boys and threw myself into boy life: reading the adventure stories, fighting the monsters, learning the fishing knots. When the boys become men and I’m fishing alone, will it be devastating? It’ll be nice to have more time for my husband. Probably good for my writing. Maybe I’ll start going to lunch with other women?

I’m guessing it’ll be okay. After all, I didn’t become a boy mom in order to parent them; they made me into one. Henceforth I will always be that, no matter what I or they are doing. As noted, I was never even particularly domestic! But I’m increasingly aware, as I get older, that the experience they gave me is exceedingly rare nowadays. My band of brothers. And I get to share in that life. How many boys today ever get to form those kinds of intimate bonds with so many companions? How many moms get to experience it as I have?

I probably should’ve written that book, though. Because when it comes to raising boys, it feels like I know less every day.