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Thursday is garbage day in our neck of the woods. Around 8am, the big green trash eater pulls up out front. It passes by twice – once to get the trash on the opposite side of the street, and then again on its way back to get ours. When Max hears the slow groan of the truck, he scurries to the couch, climbs it like a koala bear on bennies, pulls open the drapes, and leans his face to the window to witness the glory of the big-wheeled hunk of metal. Sweet garbage-collecting action. A Thursday morning ritual.

I sometimes wonder about the nature versus nurture debate when it comes to gender, intelligence, sexuality, etc. Well, when it comes to gender at least, Max has convinced me – nature is boss. I certainly didn’t teach him to be a dirt-diggin’, train- obsessed boy; he was simply born that way. Predetermined machismo. One of his first words was vroom. Onomatopoeia – well done, Maximus Manliness. He was just seven or eight months old when he started driving a toy car up the arm of the sofa; a perfect hill. (And my boobs; imperfect speed bumps.) Who taught him that? Not I. Not anyone. He is snakes and snails and puppy dog tails, through and through. Sometimes I expect him to emerge from his bedroom with a frog in his pocket.

I admit – I let him watch too much TV. He likes a variety of shows, but the ones that really get his blood pumping are Bob the Builder, Mighty Machines, Thomas and Friends; you get the idea. Tools, heavy equipment, trains, trucks. How does he even know what these things are? He doesn’t, but he knows what he likes; it’s in his DNA. He has an innate attraction to things that have power, movement, and aggression. The vroom of Roary (the racing car)’s engine, the buzz of Bob’s powertools, the choo-choo of Thomas and his chugging chums. Give ‘er, says Max Murphy, in not so many words.

When he was about ten months old, he could use a hockey stick like nobody’s business. Check out the natural goalie stance. When he makes it big in the NHL one day, they’ll use this pic in his player bio.  NHL. Torbay rec league. Whatev.

Eat your heart out, Patrick Roy!

We take walks to the farm down the road, with an eye out for cows and horses that often graze in pastures sloping to the harbour. We are lucky to live near such breathtaking scenery. But Max has other ideas. On the way there is a big, yellow school bus, parked on a strip of gravel, off duty. With eyes as big as saucers and a twinkle to boot, Max points to it and makes a vroom-like sound in his throat, with a question mark vocalized at the end. “Yeah, that’s a school bus!” I assure him. He sits back in the umbrella stroller, satisfied. Who needs animals when there’s this big, beautiful, yellow creature before us?

I love his rough and tumble ways. But I want to show him that’s it okay to be tender too. When he pulls on Splash’s tail or hugs her a little too hard, I say “be gentle”, and he starts to pet her softly. Though his inborn nature tells him to be strong and fast, I want to nurture him to also be soft and thoughtful. I will start with a Cabbage Patch Doll for Christmas. No joke. Think little boys shouldn’t play with dolls? Fair enough. But by telling your son “dolls are for girls”, aren’t you also telling him that caring for children is the mother’s job? Not cool. I save this debate for another post. It’ll be called Long Live Paddy Shane! Paddy Shane was the name of my husband’s Cabbage Patch Kid, circa 1983. Laugh if you want, but Paddy Shane could very well be the reason Andrew is just as nurturing as I am, if not more.

The other night, Max was walking around the living room hugging and squeezing a plush dog. A rare sight. Since birth, Max has never taken to anything for comfort. Not a soother, not a stuffed animal, not a blanket. Now, here he was, cuddling this stuffed pup. Wow, I thought; maybe he’s finally developing a softer side.

Five minutes later I found the toy facedown in Splash’s water dish. It was too late for CPR.

Sunday driving.
Playing dinkies at Nanny's in Badger's Quay.

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