This article appeared in the
Glendale News-Press on
Maybe it’s me………….
but is it possible to
understand boys? I’m not referring to
men with this question, but to the child-sized-handle-with-care edition of the
species. And I’m not talking about stuff
like when you give them a toy, they play
with the box. Or that they like bugs and
lizards. I’m talking about the seriously
incomprehensible goofy things they do.
Last week I took the kids to
the mall to shop for Dad’s birthday. I
only took 3 of the 5. That would be 3/5
of the usual chaos. 60%. Only slightly over 50%. In fact, I figure it was closer to actually
being 50%, since I had strategically planned this trip for a time when the
3-year old was in school.
So, this is do-able, I think
to myself. They’re all old enough to
reason, and none have been expelled from school yet, so they must know
something about how to behave properly in public. Before we exit the car, I give the mall
behavior speech, just in case. “No running, no yelling, no straying. You must behave with consideration for
others.” That should cover it, I feel. We’re good to go.
We exit the vehicle and walk
down a flight of stairs to the mall entrance.
As I proceed, a golf ball bounces down the steps in front of me. My sons are chasing it. My daughter is laughing. Not being completely stupid, I quickly deduce
that the golf ball must belong to one of us.
I know it’s not mine, and my daughter isn’t chasing it. Therefore, it must belong to one of the
boys. I should be a detective.
Fortunately, the AWOL golf
ball is quickly captured, and I endeavor to deal with this “situation” before
we enter the mall proper. The scene goes
something like this:
I say “Okay, give me the
golf ball.”
Son 1 says, “All of
them?”
I am temporarily rendered
speechless. Why would there be more than
one? Why, in fact, would there be any at
all? Foolish mortal that I am, I
ask. “What do you mean, all of
them? You brought more than one?”
Son 1 and Son 2 take a
moment to stare at me like I’ve got to be the only moron on the planet that
would show up at the mall with just one golf ball. They reply in unison, “Well, yeah, DUH.”
Resisting the urge to choke
them, not entirely because there are people around (but mostly), I take a
moment to explain the outstanding level of rudeness contained in the 3-letter
word “DUH”. But this is a repeat lecture
for them, and although the heads are bobbing, the ears are not listening.
So I give up and move on to
the golf ball issue. I briskly explain
that we will place all of the golf balls in my purse, so as to avoid further
escapes, which could be both dangerous and costly in a mall environment. They nod sagely in response to these words,
obviously having understood the full magnitude of my reasoning (or maybe their
heads are still bobbing from the lecture).
I hold out my hand for the golf balls.
Eyeing my purse, Son 1 asks
me if I’m sure I have room. I stare at
him. “Of course I have room, this is a
big purse. Hand them over.”
Ah, how the naive among us
are soon outed. I soon realize that no,
I don’t have enough room in my purse.
This is not a question of 4 or 5 golf balls; it’s not even a question of
four or five golf balls apiece. Their
pockets are literally bulging with golf balls, practically pulling their pants
down with the weight of them. I stuff as
many as I can into my purse. I hand the
others back, and very sternly command them, “Ok, you will have to hold on to
these. They are not, repeat NOT, to
leave your pockets for any reason. Is
that clear?”
Sons 1 & 2 nod. Just in case, I give the command again, and
they nod more vigorously. I don’t know
if the vigor of the shake really means anything, but it looks very convincing, and
I feel better. I then make a foolish
attempt to unravel at least part of the boy-thought-pattern mystery. I ask them gently, “Why did you bring golf
balls to the mall, anyway?”
“Oh, just thought we might
need ‘em.”
Ok, we’re not even IN the
mall yet, and I’ve had enough. Maybe
it’s just that I’m not a boy. Or maybe
it’s me.