A Lone Island of Testosterone

After growing up in a family of four rowdy, unruly, and somewhat crude boys, and after raising three rowdy, unruly, and somewhat crude sons, marrying a woman with two young daughters is a whole new world for me. It’s like being a lone island of testosterone in a sea of estrogen, the quintessential “fish out of water.”

When I was a kid my brothers and I loved to watch Bugs bunny, Yosemite Sam, the Road Runner, Sylvester, Tweetie Bird, and Johnny Quest, to name a few. They were loud, somewhat rough and tumble for their day (some claimed they were even violent), and perhaps a bit obnoxious.

The boys of my sons’ generation watched shows like He-Man, G.I. Joe, and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Again, loud, rough (perhaps a bit violent), and obnoxious.

But my how different TV watching is with girls. For them it’s none of that boyish rough and tumble stuff. No, they watch Caillou, Little Bear, Backyardigans, and Wonder pets—mild, cute, cartoons that teach a life lesson in a warm, fuzzy way.

No self-respecting boy would be caught dead watching those shows. Why, in my day (this lecture sounds eerily familiar) a boy who’d watched those shows might just as well have put on his mother’s dress and high heels and paraded around town; he would’ve been labeled something that today is politically incorrect to say.

In grammar school, the depictions on my lunch pales were G.I. Joe, Lassie, horses, cowboys, etc. My sons had wrestlers, He-Man, the “Turtles,” and the like.

Sweetie’s daughters’ lunch pales have Cinderella, Snow White, and Sleeping Beauty—sounds like I’m writing an advertisement for Disney--on them.

When raising sons I, as did my father before me, would trip over basketballs, footballs, baseball bats, skateboards, Lincoln Logs, Tonka Trucks, plastic army men, and cowboy boots strewn throughout the house.

Nowadays, I find myself tripping over mini kitchenettes, little pink purses, dolls and miniature baby strollers, batons, ballet slippers, My Little Pony horses, and snow globes with princesses in them.

Gone are the boyish things my sons, as did their father before them, left behind in the car. I now have ponytail bands around my gearshift, Snow White encased in a clear plastic container, plastic crowns with plastic jewels encrusted in them, and pink, princess flip-flops (there's the two P's again, pink and princess. Is there a theme going on here or what?) in my car.

But the biggest difference, and the toughest by far, that I’ve found between residing in a household of women compared to residing in a household of men is the curtailing of my crude side. No more flatulence contests (my brother onced echoed one off the walls of our basement. He won of course). Nope, now I hold it in until I resemble something like a human zeppelin, and I do believe there've been a few times I’ve come close to floating away right out of the house.

Now there’s no more making an art of burping—seeing who can hit middle “C” with his burp or who can say the alphabet in one big belch. There’s no downing several sodas at once and then trying to out do your comrades with the loudest and/or longest burp. Yes, I now bare the pain of holding in a burp to forgo the shame of letting one rip out loud.

There are also no more jokes about bodily functions, boogers, innards, and body parts. Now it’s just calling Cinderella Cinderfella, Snow White Snow Grey, My Little Pony My Little Phony (I have no idea why those last two are funny), and the funny little nicknames like Squirt and Sport that I’ve given the girls, which makes them giggle like someone's tickling their feet with a feather.

Yes, it’s different living a house full of females, and sometimes I do feel like an island of testosterone in a sea of estrogen. But life’s all about change isn’t it?
Change helps us to learn and to grow.

Speaking of which, it’s time to end this little chat. The Backyardigans are on and, um, oh yeah, I promised the girls I’d watch it with them. Yeah that's it, not that I actually like the show or anything mind you.