The Undeniability of Gender Differences

This morning I showed up for my Satuday morning class at the local Community College. I locked my car, and trudged across the newly plowed parking lot to the snow-covered grass, and tromped my way to the building. On the door was a sign saying that all classes were canceled due to inclement weather. I made my way through the snow again and back to my car, and this time noticed how empty the parking lot was. I heard the distant scraping of a snow plow, but otherwise no one was around. I put my key in the lock of the car and then…..nothing. The lock was frozen shut. I tried the passenger door and the trunk and had no luck. The key would not budge in any of the locks. I assessed my situation. No cell phone, no pay phones around, no people. I was about 3 miles from home, so I could walk if absolutely necessary. Naturally, I tried my key in all the locks again to no avail. Then I heard a motor and saw a white van pull in the parking lot. The poor man getting out of the van, presumably for his morning class, barely had placed his second foot on the ground before I gave him an unnaturally cheery hello and started babbling about my locks being frozen shut. He looked surprised, then came over right away to try to help. Once I told him the college was closed, he relaxed more knowing he wouldn’t be late for class and tried my key in all the locks.

What on earth was I doing? I hadn’t given any thought to asking him for help, it was an automatic response on my part. I need help, I see a man, and I ask him. And yes, there was a little part of me that thought he would know just what to do, just because he’s a man. Would I have said anything to a woman who got out of the van? I doubt it. Did I really think he would have a solution for me? Probably not. But, true to male form he readily came over to help, muttered under his breath when he couldn’t turn the key, and went back to rummage in his van. For what, who knows? He didn’t have any de-icing stuff in there. He tested his own locks, which worked. Then he returned to my car. He accidentally tried his van key in my Subaru lock, and when he noticed his mistake and used the Subaru key, it mysteriously turned in the lock. I was able to get in my car and was no longer stranded in the parking lot. I thanked him profusely and he joked that even though his wife warned him classes would be canceled that this must have been why he came to campus this morning. We got a laugh out of him being the guardian angel, then we got in our respective vehicles and drove to our respective homes.

I am a bit ashamed to admit this is not the first time something like this has happened. It’s weird for me to think about, particularly because I am generally a very shy person around people I don’t know. But when I am alone and have a problem of the mechanical kind, I immediately turn into a damsel in distress. I have had two flat tires that I can remember in my life, but didn’t change either of them. On one occasion a big metal spike punctured my tire when I was parking and all the air went out of my tire. I quickly remembered that my friend, Sam, worked a block away and ran to his office. HE would know what to do. He would be HAPPY to drop everything at work and change my tire. And, truthfully, he was happy to help. And, he knew just how to change a tire.

Just in case anyone is wondering, I have learned how to change a tire. But, in the ten years between learning how and actually getting a flat tire, I forgot everything. Part of the problem is that I just am not interested in tools. I understand that they’re important, and I have used them–I’ve tiled floors and used nail guns and drills and saws and I’ve cut wood with an axe. But I’m not drawn to tools, not the way my sons are, they are both entranced by tools and have infinite patience to learn the names of tools and how they work. For me, tools are ugly things that have a purpose that I vaguely understand.

It’s not always about tools, sometimes it’s about strength. As a small woman, I am aware that almost all men are stronger than me, even though I consider myself strong for my size. Therefore, it’s seems obvious that if I need something lifted, I’m going to ask a man. But why do I automatically think a man can help me fix my frozen locks? It’s not about strength, and not really about tools. It’s something more….that male certain something that they’re born with that automatically makes them good at fixing things and enjoy fixing mechanical and technical problems. Or so it seems to me.

I know many women are very capable of solving these types of problems, and when I have been really stuck, with no man in sight, I’ve been able to figure all kinds of things out. But maybe it has something to do with what my husband once mentioned to me, that it’s redundant for two people in the same household to know how to do all the same things, so it’s more efficient to specialize. I’m just naturally more inclined to specialize in different areas. It’s almost effortless for me to find solutions when a child’s favorite toy is lost, or to scrape together a meal when company shows up unexpectedly. I know where everything is and who’s doing what when and what bills have been paid.

I like to think of myself as a strong and self-sufficient person and  few years ago I would never have let myself put these words on paper. I don’t even own any high heel shoes unless you count the one pair with one-inch heels that I wear to weddings. I happily shovel snow and take out the trash. But, when something mechanical goes wrong, I panic, and if the washing machine breaks, you can be sure I’ll call my husband.

New Insecurities

With every new phase and experience in life comes new insights, new knowledge, personal growth, and new insecurities. I could really do without the last part. Maybe it’s not that way for everyone, but it definitely is for me. It’s easy to get caught off guard when you’re in a new situation, and unless you possess an incredible ability to think on your feet, assess new situations clearly and react in the moment, it’s easy to be left confused and speechless.

Motherhood is crazy because you don’t get to master it. Children grow and change so rapidly that they are constantly entering new phases and hence putting us parents in new situations where we have no idea what is going on or how to react. The examples are endless. There are the new health situations that you must deal with for the first time such as croupy coughs or fevers over 104 or troubled breathing at 3am or bizarre rashes or blood in the stool or repeated projectile vomiting. And that’s just the beginning of the list. Then there are the new behaviors such as tantrums, hitting, biting and kicking or lying or removing one’s own poopy diaper, general rude or defiant behavior, and I have no idea what’s in store once kids are older than five. All of that is humbling enough.

Somehow, the part that I have found most stressful is the new social encounters that arise from being a parent. First, there is the dealing with people that I would never otherwise socialize with because we have nothing in common, but with whom I have been lumped with in social situations because what we now have in common is that we’re mothers. Never mind that I had my first child at age 32, and the other mothers in my new “mom’s group” all had their first babies at age 20. Those first attempts to find a peer group of new parents were awkward, but having new toddler-age children to my home for the first time was even weirder. Here I was, someone who had never really been around children, and now I was just getting used to my own little person. Then, someone else’s little person comes to my house and is nothing like my little one. And, almost small children can be described by the adjective “strange,” so there is just no preparing for having a young child you don’t really know in your home. For instance, if you have a picky eater and then you have a child come over that just eats non-stop, it’s kind of freaky. Or, if your kid has never put a mark on the wall and someone else’s 2-year old comes over and graffitis your living room, that’s really wacky too. It doesn’t matter if the child is well or badly behaved, it’s just the differentness that has stumped me. As a mother of two socially youngish boys, I have had 3-year old girls to my home that were so socially mature that I felt that I should offer them tea instead of a juice box.

Maybe my insecurity in these social situations is that when someone comes to my home, I really want them to have a good time. So, imagine my horror when a preschool playmate of my son’s coolly assesses our home and informs me, “you don’t really have very many toys. I have a lot more at home.” Or tells me, “I’m not having fun, I want to go home.” Is it a normal reaction of mine to feel my adrenaline rise? Thoughts race through my head: Maybe I should put on music and we can dance…I should have baked cookies…..I need to get more toys that blink and light up…..maybe we should get a pet pony or an indoor pool. This is craziness, I know.

I have, over time, become a little less anxious about hosting the preschool crowd in my home, but nothing has prepared me for my most recent, uncomfortable, social encounter: babysitters. I have been hiring a 14-year old girl from down the street for a couple hours here and there. She speaks in monosyllables to me, but seems very attentive and good with the boys. Other than the painful hello and goodbye conversations, all has been going well until last week. My babysitter came at the arranged time, but brought a friend with her who is also a girl that has babysat for us. I found it strange that she hadn’t asked first, but didn’t say anything. I did some errands and returned 1 1/2 hours later. I paid her for 2 hours and felt awkward but didn’t say anything else. I saw the two girls look at the money and mumble, and then leave. I was so uncomfortable and realized that maybe both of them expected to get paid. I didn’t know what to do. I thought, I am the adult, I should be in charge of this situation. I only asked one sitter to come and don’t need two, so there is no reason I should pay both of them, it’s ridiculous for them to think they should both get paid. But, instead of feeling like a grown adult I felt like an insecure kid myself, wondering if I did the right thing. So then, after consulting with a friend and my husband I decided to call her, ask her to sit again, and then just casually mention that it’s okay to bring a friend I know but that I won’t pay them both unless I ask for two sitters. So I did call, and got her father on the phone. I asked him to have her phone me, but she hasn’t called back. So now I feel like her whole family hates me and I don’t know what to do. I feel awkward because we’re neighbors and also disappointed because she lives just down the street and it’s nice to have a sitter close by.

I wish I could just feel a little uneasy, and then let it go. But no, my uncertainly and stress and how they react with my body keep me awake at night. I try to tell myself that I should not be losing sleep over unprofessional 14-year old girls, but it doesn’t work. I feel like I’m not up to the job of being the mom and managing all that goes with it, and I even feel a little panicky of what’s to come. After all, my five-year old starts kindergarten next year! That is really uncharted territory. My worst fear for the future is of aggressive boys. My son mostly plays with girls now, and a couple gentle boys. I just know that having some rough boys to my house will make me shake in my boots. I already know how I will feel: horrified if they’re very aggressive or rough; but also I will think that maybe this is what typical boys are like and I just haven’t met them yet and I’d better somehow learn to get along with them and make them comfortable in my home if my children are to avoid being ostracized. Oh, the crushing weight of it all.

A part of me yearns for the days of yesteryear when all adults were missus and mister and adults weren’t too concerned about whether youths (whether 3 or 14) approved of what they do. Maybe I put too much on myself and I should care less about each experience and realize that if I don’t think I’ll be losing sleep over it in a year than it probably isn’t that important. I’ll work on that, and in the mean time, try to muster up the courage to call another babysitter.