A Positive She-Male Role Model

I didn't post last week; it's been that special kind of busy that happens when your spouse is away.

It's not just the lack of another pair of grown-up hands. What's particularly trying is the emotional toll on the kids, who miss their dad and have an upset routine.

My kids seem to sit in a persistent malaise when their dad is away for long. They inevitably become fascinated with other guys around them—usually manly guys doing manly things. Guys doing construction work, stocking product at the local grocery store, fixing the road, pruning trees.

This time, they slouched around watching a carpenter we've hired to fix our front porch. They asked him questions about his circular saw, how many kids he has, and whether he had built them a tree house.

When a painter came over to do an estimate, my son, who is three, hugged his leg and wouldn't let go.

But it wasn't until one particular morning that I really understood, in the most visceral way, a boy's need for a male role model.

After I saw my girls onto their school bus, I had about 45 minutes to kill with my son until his preschool began.

Let's be ambulance drivers,” he said. This is a game we sometimes play when we're walking somewhere, just to pass the time. He pretends to turn on flashing lights and drives me, the other ambulance driver, as we try to figure out what to do about--as my son puts it-- “the guy in the back with his leg broke off.”

When playing the ambulance driver game, my son finds it necessary for both of us to speak in deep, masculine, ambulance-driver voices.

This time, we played for a bit but soon I got bored. Plus, my vocal chords were feeling a little strained with all the man-talk. I decided we'd go for a coffee.

It was crowded in the coffee shop, and my son was getting a little restless. We got to the front of the line and I ordered a coffee for me and hot chocolate for him—in my normal voice, of course.

“NO!” shouted my son. “We're AM-bulance drivers!”

“It's a game we play,” I said apologetically to the cashier, who smiled weakly, then lifted her eyes to the next customer. We moved down the counter to wait for our drinks.

“You know,” I said to my son. “There are lots of girl ambulance drivers.”

“No!” he said. He seemed to be gathering steam, but then our order came.

I now had two hot drinks to pick up, one in either hand.

“Thank you,” I said politely to the barista. Then I turned to my son and offered him his drink.

"Here's your hot chocolate," I said in that saccharine, placating voice that panicked moms get when they're trying to ward off a meltdown.

“No!” shouted my son. “It's COFFEE!" 

"Ambulance drivers drink hot chocolate," I said, completely missing the point. 

"Say AM-bulance driver words!” commanded the mini dictator.

Crying and totally frustrated, he dropped to the floor.

Here was my choice. In a packed coffee shop, I could speak to my son in a deep, macho voice, or I could let him continue to scream and go floppy, put down the coffees, pick him up and leave.

I think it's testament to just how badly I wanted that coffee: I chose the voice.

“Come on,” I boomed gruffly. “Let's go check on our truck.” I think I even spoke out of the corner of my mouth.

“Yeah,” said my son, smiling through tears. And we swaggered out of there together as ambulance drivers—one of them a pint-sized coffee drinker and the other a sort of confused man-mom.