The testosterone equation

There are times I wish I was a man:

When there isn’t a rest stop in sight and I need to pee.

When I want to put my fist in someone’s face.

When I need to take my car to the mechanic.

When… oh hell, that’s about it.

There are times when I grateful beyond measure that I am a woman (hear me roar!). 

Testosterone must be a terrible challenge to live with. Outnumbered by men in my home I am starting to accept that living with testosterone is a biological hazard. 

Once that man switch gets flicked there is nothing a woman can do but sit back and watch the situation unfold.

Picture this…

Lightning splits the sky. 

A curtain of rain falls to earth. 

Men scramble through the mud to the safety of their cars. 

Simultaneously they all edge towards the exit. 

The switch is flicked. 

It is not about getting home anymore. 

It is war. 

It is about being first – no matter what. 

The field on which they parked now turned into an ancient battlefield where man takes on man in a primordial battle for supremacy. 

It is every man for himself. 

Women and children sit mute as their alpha males enter the fray.

It was about now that my husband decided that he would rather die than let the Toyota Landcruiser take the forward position. 

Me: “Darling. He’s already driven over two traffic cones. I don’t think he is in a very good mood. Perhaps we should allow him to go first?”

Him: “No! I refuse. I was here first and I’ll be damned if I let him in.”

I shut up, regarding it as the most prudent course of action. About, oh, 30 seconds later the Landcruiser driver rammed into the back of our compact little Ford. Then he reversed and rammed us again. I started to pray.

Husband: “I’m getting out.”

Me in tones of pure ice: “No, you are not. I told you he was not in a good mood. I have his registration. Just let it go.”

Husband opening door: “I’m going to take his picture!”

Me: “By all means, if getting a fist in your face is how you’d like this evening to end. And once we are home, I’ll knee you in the balls for being a stupid idiot. Let. It. Go.”

Did I mention my mother was in the car? No? Well she was. Awkward much? We tried, we really did, not to take the piss. We failed.

Halfway home, my husband is ready to turn the car around and scour the streets for the Toyota driving maniac. By now he has convinced himself that he has let himself down as a man. A real man would have got out of the car and indulged in a bit of old fashioned mud wrestling. 

That was three days ago. Each morning at the school he eyes each Toyota Landcruiser with an Attila the Hun type of gleam in his eye.

Him: “Is that it? Was that him?”

Me: “No.”

Silence

Me: “What are you doing to do if you find him exactly?”

Him: “I’ll key his bloody car, that’s what I’ll do.”

Me: “Wasn’t it you who once told me that two wrongs don’t make a right?”

Him: “It’s not about bloody right and wrong. It’s about satisfaction. God! Don’t you understand men at all?”

Apparently not.

Jenni Button and Napoleon

I approached today with the strategy of a master general preparing for war. At least that’s what I always think on the Jenni Button suit days. Like each expensive layer is armour. The ritual of make-up and mascara as intricate as the way my forefathers painted their skins blue before battle. And the final touch. The killer heels. All of which was somewhat marred by a hacking cough and a runny nose. Still you can’t have everything and the way the weather was at Waterloo, I’m fairly sure old Bonaparte had a runny nose too. Of course he lost, but still.

This morning we met the headmistress of the pre-prep, the headmaster of the prep and the class teacher. And I might have well as worn jeans. Bugger. I don’t get enough reasons to wear the Jenni Button suit, but the damn thing has to be dry cleaned, so I’d like the occasion to have merited it. I am, however, very grateful it didn’t.

Walking in to the headmistress’s office I felt a strange time displacement brought about in large part thanks to the cough syrup and Med Lemon cocktail I had for breakfast. Anyhow, this Back to the Future phenomenon transported me almost twenty years into the past bringing back in technicolour brilliance the times I was called in for a “chat”. I shook it off with some difficulty.

The school has taken my increasingly impassioned pleas to heart and instituted an anti-bullying behaviour curriculum. The psychologist has spoken to Small boy aged 6, his counterpart and the class. They’ve acted out bullying behaviour and how to deal with it. Now, if only Small boy aged 6 can take those lessons out of the classroom.

After a lot of posturing – you can’t get around that – we’re all grown-ups who think we know best. We came to some conclusions.
First, perhaps we should ask the boys what is going on?
Second, Small boy aged 6 is coming out his shell, is this causing some tension?
Third, what is the root cause of this trauma?
Fourth, how are we making it worse and how are we helping?
Fifth, what must we do?

I’ll start at number five at work backwards. The psychologist will advise if we should keep the boys apart, or should try and see how they work outside of the school context together – like a play date. As an aside, I loathe them, but they are a necessary evil.

Instead of asking how Small boy’s day was and the highs and lows of it, I need to ask relevant targeted questions about his day at school and end with, is there anything else you’d like to tell me?

Now the first three questions are pretty much the same and I discovered the outcome on the drive home today.

Small boy aged 6 launched into his day without any prompting.
Small boy aged 6: “Mummy. Mummy. Normally, the headmaster spoke to both of us today.”
Mummy with some interest and trepidation: “Really, what did he say?”
Small boy aged 6: “He asked us if we wanted to be friends. And Mummy? Mummy? We both said yes!”

Now this is the bizarre part of the whole situation. I think they do want to be friends, they just seem to be going about it in a truly strange and destructive manner.

Small boy aged 6: “And then! And then, Mummy, the headmaster asked him who his friends were and he said, X and Y. Then he asked me and I said X and Y too!”

AHA! It was a light bulb moment. Thank God for headmasters who understand the intricate and convoluted workings of the male mind. Basic jealousy and posturing because they both have the same two friends. So, I guess it was a sort of an animalistic vying for alpha position or some other testosterone induced insanity. Do they even have testosterone at this age?

I think we all agreed that we’re on the same side at last and that we’re all trying to make sure the boys are okay. We chatted about diversity and perhaps incorporating some celebration of difference into the anti-bullying class. We hope that might help with the whole violin playing issue. I must admit, I do hope for the day when he trades it on for the drums. 6 year old violin playing is no joke on the adult eardrums. At least with the drums I can turn them into the next Jonas Brothers. A mother can dream, can’t she?

Still I ended the day decidedly more light-hearted about the education and psychological wellbeing of Small boy aged 6 then when I started. The only thing missing was a reward from the rather spectacular jar of sweets the headmaster keeps on his table. Perhaps the headmistress should get one too?

Image from: http://www.english.upenn.edu/Projects/knarf/People/napoleon.html