This past weekend my husband took our two boys to a Fathers and Sons outing. Aptly named, it’s a camping weekend of no-girls-allowed. My daughter and I don’t mind, we give ourselves the girliest, girls night out possible while there gone.
When my sons returned home they regaled me with stories of their antics. They put long sticks in the fire until the tips began to burn then pulled them out and chased each other. They climbed a steep mountain with a cliff drop off on one side without parental assistance, and rather than eat the marshmallows they roasted, they chucked them at each other. Nothing like sticking a gooey mess to your friend’s shirt to show how much you care.
You might think I’d be upset by all this, I’m not. There are very few things that men and woman do the same, and our approach to rearing children would be one of those things. My sons had a great time. Sometimes, boys just need to be boys. I would have only ruined it with my overbearing, “Put that stick back in the fire before you poke somebody’s eye out! No, you threw your marshmallow, you can’t have another. Are you kidding me, that mountain is off limits mister!”
Besides, my husband did manage to keep them out of the nearby river swelled high with the spring runoff, so they came home alive and without any major broken bones. A mother can’t ask for more than that.