A Writer’s Papyrus

When I was young, I was always a bit of a tomboy.  I was into RC cars, space-station Lego sets and computers.  My Mum told me that the first doll I ever received as a present I threw across the room and refused to play with it.  Growing up, I always thought that all the games the boys played were more fun than playing “house and family” with the girls.  I ran amok in the playgrounds, climbed trees and even participated in skirmishes.  I could do all the things the boys could do and sometimes better.  When I was in kindergarten, I was the leader of my own gang - I could fight any of those that challenged my authority. 

Now that I have a son, the painful reminders of my youth are displaying themselves through him.  Yesterday, he picked up his Fisher Price catapillar, lifted it over his head and threw it aside as though he was re-enacting the role of King Kong.  The hubby has already stereo-typed him as a regular rascal, although I’m trying very hard not to let that label stick because I believe children have a way of fulfilling the words used to describe them to the letter.

There is a belief that mischievous children grow up to be very bright.  The theory behind this thought is that they often land themselves in trouble because of their overactive brains always seeking some sort of activity to test the world around them and observe the results.  Of course, I am also aware that this may be wishful thinking on my part that there is a reason for my son’s potential roguish behaviour. 

That said, I’ll be content for him to follow in my footsteps if he could contain his interests in Lego, Tonka trucks, and RC helicopters.  Other than that, there may perhaps be some work required on his social skills but let’s hope that’s all that is required.

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