Girls Should Be Raised Like Boys, Boys Should Be Raised Like Wolves

“Girls should be raised like boys, and boys should be raised like wolves”

A great friend of mine once made this statement while we were in Canada hunting and fishing about 10 years ago. He was raising two pre teen girls then, and had not yet had his son he is currently preparing for the world. I had no children, and because the statement was clear and concise, it stuck in my craw. At the time, I had very little frame of reference, other than recalling the 10 years I lived with my older step brother and step father growing up, where I learned many lessons on the laws of a pack, including a game called “hard in the arm” that I’m sure is on a list of banned activities in every child services inspection manual throughout the country. For those that never played, it involved winning a hand of poker, and then getting to choose which losing player you felt it wise to strike, hard in the arm, with one punch, knowing they may win the next hand of poker and get to strike you, hard in the arm. It was legal to run across the room and WWF a flying punch (Hulk and MachoMan were popular then), although un-advisable if you were the youngest player in the group and could not hit the hardest, knowing that the elder wolves may choose to do the same flying punch on their turn. The game was played until you could no longer lift your arm or mom got home, whichever occurred first. I doubt Hasbro will choose to market this idea, but if I’m ever stuck in a Turkish prison, I have a certain set of skills that may be useful.

So as I listened to my girls argue over balloons I brought home the other day, I wondered, were my girls actually boys, would I handle the mediation I was preparing to engage in differently? And should I? And what does “Raising them like boys” really mean. The exchange between daughter 1 and 2:

“Harper, please give me the balloon” slight plead from Deuce                    
“No, it’s mine” firm from Uno
“I neeeed to play with it” corners of mouth begin to curl, fan belt on Deuce's whine engine engages
“No” Uno, loud, stern, with the confidence of an extra foot of height, 3 bonus years, and 20 extra lbs
“But I want the balloonnnnnnn” Deuce with eyes teary, corners of mouth below chin now, whine at level 7
“Play with one of the other balloons” Uno recalling that Dad brought home 5 balloons, and the other 4 were 3’ away
“But I want THAT balloon” Deuce in triple octave, words barely discernible, ugly cry engaged

Wolves would have played "hard in the arm" and winner got the balloon if one of them didn’t get mad and pop it first. Were I raising wolves, I could have thrown a deck of cards between them, gave a quick demo, and grabbed a beer.

Their mom was home, altering my course of action, likely wondering why I hadn’t yet stopped the banshee wail.

If I was raising boys….

I channeled a little King Solomon and declared loudly for all in my domain to hear.

“If thou cannot share, the balloon shall be popped”

The war cry of she who wails subsided. My statement seemed appropriate, manly, and I certainly was  establishing clearly my expectation of sharing.

The room quieted for a brief second, allowing me to think I had won, and then my youngest, who moments ago had declared the only acceptable outcome was sole possession in something between William Wallace's inspirational speech in Braveheart and what One Direction sounds like in my head, spoke clearly, firmly in a calm collected voice, and without hesitation or fear:

“That’s silly dad, there are still 4 other balloons we can play with”

Royal flush by the 4 year old, I lose hard in the arm again.

Girls are smarter than wolves, enjoy having them in your pack.