Explain it to me?
When I became a single mother, I knew there would be things about my three boys that I wouldn’t understand. As a high school teacher, I understood boys were physical. I had witnessed countless fights between boys where they beat the living crap out of each other, then shook hands and moved on in mere minutes. I have to admit that I grew to appreciate this economical sort of conflict far more than I could tolerate battles between girls.
I’m not lying when I say teenage girls are vicious. They may not attack each other physically as often, but a girl fight never ends and is far sneakier. Once a group of girls decides to ostracize another girl, she will never be admitted into the fold again and this fight can last generations.
Still, boy fights are violent and alarming. Before I had male children of my own, these battle royals were deeply disturbing to me. Then I had three sons. Inevitably there were times when they erupted into violence. Sometimes it was a shoving match, sometimes nothing more than a chest bump, but other times it was a brawl. I’m not proud to admit that I locked the youngest ones out of the house once when they were determined to beat the pulp out of each other. Dr. Phil probably wouldn’t have called it effective parenting, but it got their attention.
As I said, I was prepared to not understand things about my sons, but I never thought there would be things I wouldn’t understand about my cats. I have two male cats. I use the term male loosely because they are both…well, eunuchs. We call them brothers, but that is only by adoption. They share no genetic make-up whatsoever. And yet they fight. They fight like…cats and dogs. I know, horrible pun, but sometimes puns are too apt to resist.
What I find most surprising is how gentle and calm they are with us. Our golden retriever lays her head on each of their bellies to have them clean her ears. And they are not always antagonistic with each other. When it’s cold, you can find them cuddled up together in the dog bed.
But every night without fail, they get into a skirmish. A violent, screaming, hair-flying skirmish. They tumbled over each other, knock each other down the stairs, and slam each other into walls. At first, I would race to break them up, but as with my own sons, eventually I grew tired of it.
This past Christmas was no exception. For some reason, the tree and the presents under it created a territorial war. The more presents we stacked, the more they fought. They tore bows off the presents, tunneled passageways between them, and once I saw Figaro, the younger cat, take a flying leap through the air ninja-style, clear the walls of his make-shift fort, and land precisely beneath the boughs of the tree.
When we finally took down the tree, I didn’t have to vacuum up pine needles. The base of the tree was littered with beautiful black fur, evidence of the many battles that had been fought there during the month.
Having people over is amusing. They react to the violence in my house the way I once did and demand I stop the fighting. I simply smile and say, “Ah, well, here’s the thing – boys will be boys. Who am I to interrupt something so primal?”
Dr. Phil be damned.
EmeraldM.L. Hamilton
I’m not lying when I say teenage girls are vicious. They may not attack each other physically as often, but a girl fight never ends and is far sneakier. Once a group of girls decides to ostracize another girl, she will never be admitted into the fold again and this fight can last generations.
Still, boy fights are violent and alarming. Before I had male children of my own, these battle royals were deeply disturbing to me. Then I had three sons. Inevitably there were times when they erupted into violence. Sometimes it was a shoving match, sometimes nothing more than a chest bump, but other times it was a brawl. I’m not proud to admit that I locked the youngest ones out of the house once when they were determined to beat the pulp out of each other. Dr. Phil probably wouldn’t have called it effective parenting, but it got their attention.
As I said, I was prepared to not understand things about my sons, but I never thought there would be things I wouldn’t understand about my cats. I have two male cats. I use the term male loosely because they are both…well, eunuchs. We call them brothers, but that is only by adoption. They share no genetic make-up whatsoever. And yet they fight. They fight like…cats and dogs. I know, horrible pun, but sometimes puns are too apt to resist.
What I find most surprising is how gentle and calm they are with us. Our golden retriever lays her head on each of their bellies to have them clean her ears. And they are not always antagonistic with each other. When it’s cold, you can find them cuddled up together in the dog bed.
But every night without fail, they get into a skirmish. A violent, screaming, hair-flying skirmish. They tumbled over each other, knock each other down the stairs, and slam each other into walls. At first, I would race to break them up, but as with my own sons, eventually I grew tired of it.
This past Christmas was no exception. For some reason, the tree and the presents under it created a territorial war. The more presents we stacked, the more they fought. They tore bows off the presents, tunneled passageways between them, and once I saw Figaro, the younger cat, take a flying leap through the air ninja-style, clear the walls of his make-shift fort, and land precisely beneath the boughs of the tree.
When we finally took down the tree, I didn’t have to vacuum up pine needles. The base of the tree was littered with beautiful black fur, evidence of the many battles that had been fought there during the month.
Having people over is amusing. They react to the violence in my house the way I once did and demand I stop the fighting. I simply smile and say, “Ah, well, here’s the thing – boys will be boys. Who am I to interrupt something so primal?”
Dr. Phil be damned.
EmeraldM.L. Hamilton
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