Raising a boy to be a man got a lot easier the moment my son decided – irrevocably, to all appearances – that he will be a firefighter.
Let me clarify. Not become a firefighter, someday. He will be a firefighter, right now, at age 2 1/2. And he will remain so, indefinitely, until retirement, or at least until bedtime forces him to take the rubber boots off so his jammies will fit.
My son was running a hook-and-ladder before he could drink from a glass. He learned to operate the jaws of life – miniature, Playmobil version – before he gave up diapers. He gave up diapers because we told him there was a fire in the toilet, and that he had his own personal high-pressure hose he could use to douse the flames.
So at this point, what it means to raise a boy is very simple: Help him zip the vinyl size 2T firefighter coat, and then point out emerging crises throughout the house. The living room couch is actually a four-car pileup on the interstate, requiring hydraulic lifts, two ambulances and Flight for Life, with a Lego- constructed hospital awaiting victims. A forest fire has just ignited in the pantry, and Aerial Tanker One had better get off the ground. And if the pantry is doomed, my little one, while you’re in there could you rescue me a bag of chips?
It’s the same advice I would give to all the men these days who are fairly melting with indecision about how they are to “act” in a world that allegedly has no use for them anymore. Be yourself. Don’t overthink it. When you’re a firefighter, the whole world is in need of rescue. Be a firefighter, in spirit if not in career choice.
Firefighters respond to challenges. They train hard. They are courteous and helpful. They have made themselves useful to society, to women and to men alike. They don’t seem to spend a lot of time wondering if they have a “role” in modern society, or whether they should be using organic, arugula-infused, fair trade, carbon-neutral olive oil in their firehouse chili.
They show cool stuff to little kids and serve them pancakes.
Do most of that, especially the part about the pancakes, and you and your boy will be happy, and in demand.
Dolls? No sweat
What if five minutes from now my son hangs up his highly reflective waterproof firecoat forever, and takes up Barbies? What if he spends the next six months pushing a doll around in a stroller and demanding that we call him Fire Chief Mommy? What if he switches from watching “Rescue Heroes” DVDs to “Trading Spaces” and “Project Runway?”
See above, under “don’t overthink it.” Can I control what he’s interested in? Do I want to? I can’t even choose what jammies he will wear.
My parents never told me how to play, or what to think. They influenced me by living an example I wanted to imitate. Sometimes my mom made the money, sometimes my dad did the cooking. Their constancy came in the form of an unspoken declaration that their children were important and interesting to them.
Were they occasionally irritable, inscrutable, dictatorial, inconsistent, demanding or arbitrary? Of course. And they were always around, so I had time to figure that out.
Which would be the other advice I would give to any man wanting to raise a boy into a man: Hang around. Be there. Worry less about what you should say or do, and worry more about arranging your schedule with the kids in mind. I heard someone say recently there are two kinds of families: Those who build their lives around their children, and those who don’t. Be the former. At the very least, it will give you lifelong immunity to regret.
Snakes and snails…
Is any of this with my son different from how I raised my girls, now 14 and 12, already grown people I admire even as I yell at them to clean up their rooms?
Not really. There just seem to be more Hot Wheels involved so far. And more talk about front-end loaders, or top-heavy ladder trucks needing “stay-bull-wyzers.”
He and I triumphed over the women last week on our way back from the mountains, when a pee stop could absolutely, positively not wait until reaching home. I initiated him into the joys of sneaking behind a discount store, finding a handy tree with low-hanging branches, and draining the ol’ fire hose al fresco. The girls could only sit in the car, pure envy rising from their skin like smoke.
I may never teach him another thing. Except, of course, how to zip his own firecoat. That may take years.
In the meantime, a cruise ship carrying 3,000 partygoers has just crashed into a freight train carrying highly volatile fireworks, right next to the coffee table. And rumor has it Curious George is trapped in the wreckage.
No one could stand idly by that kind of disaster – not man, nor woman, nor toddler dressed in race-car-themed underpants. It takes a real hero to save the living room from utter ruin.
And a real man to bring the snacks.
Staff writer Michael Booth can be reached at 303-954-1686 or mbooth@denverpost.com.
