This morning, while waiting outside my daughter’s 2nd grade classroom, I observed a small boy returning from the playground in a frantic speed-walk. Making a beeline for his backpack, his hands were cupped tightly over his nose. “Oh dear!”, I thought. He must have a bloody nose. I readied myself to provide assistance. In watching, however, I quickly observed that the situation was completely under control. He swiftly knelt in front of his backpack, transferred the responsibility of his troubled nose to a single hand and utilized his now free hand to unzip his bag. He promptly retrieved a small pack of brightly colored, monogrammed tissues. With that same single hand, he nimbly opened the package, excised the decorative tissue, and transferred it to his nasal cavities never to reveal their contents. After a couple wipes, it became evident that the culprit was a mere booger of sorts. No blood involved. At first, relieved that he was not facing day two of the school year with a bloody nose, I quickly became intrigued. Such intensity! Such ordered care! He was clearly a conscientious little chap. I continued to observe as he conducted the final tidying to his nose, returned the tissues to his bag and retrieved one final predictable item: the hand sanitizer. Having smothered his hands in this germ eliminating substance, he neatly returned all items to his backpack, zipped it closed and returned to the playground. Walking, of course! NOT running.
Reflecting on what I had just observed, I recalled the countless times I have observed little kids with running noses. My mind quickly resurrected a familiar image. Starting with the elbow and ending with the tip of the index finger, he runs his arm across his nose and upper lip. His arm functions as a temporary home to the snot that is quickly transferred to its ultimate destination. In a second, yet equally as swift motion, he cleans his arm on the side of his jeans. I begin to wonder. Is this type of boy a dying breed in our era of helicopter parenting? What does it mean to live in an age marked by parental anxiety, hyper vigilance, and an extreme aversion to risk and germs? Is the playful poem which rhythmically announces, “Frogs and snails and puppy-dogs' tails, And that are little boys made of” losing its relevance?
Merely days from giving birth to baby boy number two, I wonder about these things. I have become quite comfortable in my role as a mother to girls, but little boys still feel a little mysterious to me. Aware of my own helicoptering tendencies, I am unsettled by the image of the tidy little boy. I definitely value manners, hygiene, and conscientiousness. I must confess, however, that there’s something so sanitized about the image that it leaves me feeling uncomfortable. I wonder about the flip side to the bug-eating, body-function obsessed, dirty fingernailed coin. I fear that in hyper-managing those aspects of my boys and my girls, that the color and vitality that childhood brings to our family could get lost. And so I reconsider...
Even this girly-girl may have to admit that, perhaps, frogs and snails and puppy-dogs’ tails may not be so bad!
