As much as I’ve been reluctant to stereotype my children’s behaviour based on their gender, I am beginning to understand what mothers of sons mean when they say, “He is such a BOY.”
Because Atticus is such a BOY.
He’s got chronic eczema on his chin, so a bandaid is a standard feature more often than not. He absolutely loathes haircuts and fights them to the death – which is mostly why I’ve given up spending $22 at the hairdressers when I can shave his head with clippers myself and achieve roughly the same look. And as for that gorgeously stubborn lower lip… he has his father to thank for that particular feature.
Just the other day, I was on the phone for 7 minutes and came back to find MY flannel pajama pants strewn carelessly in front of kitchen cupboards flung wide open… to match freezer doors — also flung wide open… 100 colourful plastic balls emptied into the living room… Arddun’s pillow on the floor… and our toilet brush casually lying on the dining table.
He’s always busy. He’s also always talking, which is to say he’s always communicating to us, though not ever in a language we understand. Eugene, who’s been boarding with us while he finds a rental of his own, is convinced Atticus is actually a native Baby Spanish speaker.
All efforts to teach Atticus proper words have been fruitless thus far.
Me: This is a mandarin! Say Maaaan-drin.
Me: No no, MAAAAAAN-DRIN.
He runs full tilt into the side of our bed just to bounce off it. He seems to eat non-stop. He’s built like a small tank. He loves books, but nothing gives him greater joy than turning a receptacle upside down and vigorously emptying its contents. Bonus points if said contents make a huge clatter on bamboo floor.
He’s a messer-upper, a lover of loud music, a cheek, and a joy.
What was God thinking when he gave these kids to us? He was thinking, “I can’t wait to show you what exquisite fun Love is.”