Warrior or wimp—How not to raise a mama’s boy

Yesterday, I stumbled upon this wonderful article (click here to read it) on Reuters.com. It is entitled, "Parents start urging kids to live on the wild side." Needless to say, I found myself shouting "Amen!" more than once while reading it. It reminded me of a chapter in my book for mothers of sons, "Your Boy: Raising a Godly Son in an Ungodly World." The chapter addresses the challenge moms face (myself included) in finding the tricky balance of protecting our sons without stifling their manhood. In the chapter, I reflect on my boys' desire one summer to camp out in a tent pitched in our backyard. For weeks. With no fence behind our house and a wide open greenbelt of woods. Woods, mind you, with lions, and tigers, and bears (oh my). Okay, maybe not lions, tigers, and bears, but seriously, try plenty of coyotes, raccoons, possums, and a rumored MOUNTAIN LION. Did I mention that they were only about 13 and 8 years old at the time? I still recall my husband saying, "Honey, what harm could befall them should they wish to spend the majority of their summer nights in a tent pitched in the backyard?" To which I graciously replied, "Hellooooooo, earth to hubby: What part of the word "MOUNTAIN LION" do you NOT understand?"

After much persuasion on my husband's part, I relented. (Translation: The boys had already moved half their room into the tent and refused to come back in). On the first night, a hungry raccoon sniffed out their stash of junk food and entered the tent uninvited. At that point, I made a plea to my husband on behalf of “God only knows what else is living out in the woods and waiting to get them,” and he gently reminded me that such adventures are what separate the men from the boys. "Yeah right," I thought. "You take them in for the required series of rabies shots should the raccoons overtake them in their quest for a midnight snack." Today, when I think back on the whole episode, I am thankful that I didn't get my way. My boys are now 20 and 15 years old and camping out in a backyard for weeks doesn't even make the radar on their list of adventurous boyhood antics. Thanks to Dad and a whole lot of prayer on my part, my boys definitely fall into the "warrior" category. If you have a son, enjoy the following tips to raising a warrior from my Your Boy book:

1. Warriors are not couch potatoes.

Nothing prepared me for my boys’ pleas for paintball guns some years ago. They wanted to join the gang of neighbor boys who were staging paintball wars in the wooded area behind our house. One of my neighbors even asked me if I was running an anti-terrorist training camp in my backyard after spotting a group of boys dressed in camo w/ their paintball guns slung over their shoulders heading between our houses on their way back to the woods (aka: the battlefield). The boys spent hours in the woods and occasionally emerged for a necessary drink of water, compliments of the spigot on the side of the house. Like feeding wild animals, I would throw out a bag or two of chips, and they were good to go for another couple of hours.

Once their warrior friends had gone home at the end of the day, Ryan and Hayden would compare their war wounds (bruises), beaming with pride over each and every one. It was moments like this that made me realize that my constant reminders to “be careful” were meant to protect my boys from the bumps and bruises of life, but in reality, the bumps and bruises of life were badges on their road to manhood. Going overboard to protect them from getting hurt would, in the end, hurt them more.

2. Warriors are not coddled.

If there was ever a lesson I have had to learn the hard way, it is that boys resist coddling moms. When Ryan played his first year of tackle football in 7th grade, I thought I would never get used to the popping and grinding sound that helmets and pads make when they collide with other helmets and pads. And then one day, my worst fear was imagined. Some big Goliath who looked like he needed to shave his 5 o'clock shadow during halftime, knocked my boy to the ground. I was proud of myself for following the obligatory 30-second rule before leaping out of the stands and runnin to my boy’s side. (Oh, yes I did.) I arrived just in time to hear Ryan say, “Mom! What are you doing?! Never ever leave the bleachers—even if I’m dying! GO AWAY, NOW!!” As I returned to my seat in the bleachers, I heard another mother whisper to someone, “It’s okay, it’s her first child—she didn’t know better.”

As painful as the lesson was, it caused me to have a flashback to a boy in my 6th grade class. His mother would bring his jacket up to school if the temperature dropped during the day. I can still picture her waving the jacket in the air and yelling, “Steven! Steven, honey! Mommy brought your jacket!” while we ran laps around the backstop at P.E. By the time we graduated high school six years later, Steven was the same boy he had been in 6th grade: timid, shy, and anything but a warrior. But bless his heart, he was warm.

3. Warriors are not timid.

When Ryan was in kindergarten at a private Christian school, the headmaster took the time to train the boys on the mechanics of a proper greeting. If he approached Ryan, he would extend his hand and say, “Well, hello, Mr. Courtney. How are you today?” If Ryan looked down at the ground (like the average five year old has a tendency to do), the headmaster would patiently and gently tell Ryan to extend his hand, look him directly in the eye, shake his hand firmly, and with confidence say, “Fine, thank you.” When Ryan would do so, he would say, “Atta boy, Ryan! Good, firm handshake.” My husband and I encouraged that training through the years and today, it has paid off. Both of my sons (and my daughter) are extremely confident when talking to adults.

Just to prove that I have lightened up over the years in my tendency to be over-protective, I thought you might enjoy the following clip of Hayden and a couple of his friends at our lake house this past spring break. We were replacing the flooring in a bedroom and this is the end result of what happens when a troop of teen boys finds a rolling trundle bed temporarily parked outside. Of course, this is also evidence that a) this is my last child and b) I'm just plain too tired to fight these testosterone flair-ups any longer. In other words, I officially give up. Oh, and I have no idea why they were wearing shirt-turbans on their heads. Warrior gear, perhaps? And just in case my mother and/or mother-in-law is reading this, for the record, this was their last trip down the driveway... I promise.



To prove how far I've come over the years, here is a picture of Hayden (red shorts above), about 12 years prior:


Clearly, I was in desperate need of an intervention...

What about you? What sort of "warrior stories" do you have under your belt?