Something So Very Y

It's that little something we girls don't have.

For such a small chromosome, it carries a lot of information. There's the usual stuff like testosterone and all the equipment that is required for maleness, and then there's the hardwiring that makes guys feel uncomfortable with pastel colors, arty films and light dinners that are salad and soup. These unspoken extras that come with the transfer of a Y chromosome from Man to conceived man, are part of a world that we as women, lacking that essential "Y"ness, can't quite grasp.

This otherness is best explained by example. The Y ensures that men eschew the mall, buy things in bulk like three 20 quart bottles of Ragu packaged together and can listen to sports other than baseball on the radio without the assistance of chemical stimulants.

Y also carries with it, the secrets of the humor of the three stooges, successful war strategies for games online, and how to watch movies about people on submarines with enthusiasm. People with Y chromosomes bought Iron Man comic books before the movie was even considered.

Lest anyone think I'm stereotyping, I have been told, by those in the Y club, that I'd make a pretty good candidate if I weren't a girl. I'm more comfortable at a football stadium than an art museum and have been apparently, though I'm not admitting anything, witnessed to accidentally nod off at a symphony but never a ball game.

Still, the Y chromosome carries with it unknown elements. Free radical personality traits that latch onto perfectly reasonable males and thus render individuals incomprehensible to those lacking this essential bit of DNA sequencing with Yness before maturation, perhaps the most confusing of all.

A young Y owning human can wear the same shirt to bed he wore for the day and then come down saying "I'm dressed." still wearing the same wardrobe. A young Y can come home with a bad grade and five minutes after snack ask, "Can I go see a movie tonight? It's the opening for the latest...insert summer blockbuster Y movie here of your choice" A young Y is puzzled that bacon is not served daily, or that women folk get irritated when the carton of orange juice is put back in the refrigerator with a measurable two teaspoons left. "I put the juice away Mom." they volunteer helpfully.

Still, we love these genetically different creatures of the same genotype. They remove mice and mow the lawns and even hall screaming toddlers off to bed. They offer to grill food and have been known to organize games of Capture the flag and sometimes the sub movies are watchable. I go upstairs to turn off the stereo of my oldest Y offspring. It is blaring James Bond instrumentals for the Trombone. Walking in, I see his sleeping form and smile. Turning off the stereo, I spot a large three gallon bottle of Deer Park in the middle of the floor.

I shouldn't be surprised. This has happened before. We have had discussions about leaving large vats of H20 in the middle of the room when he has his own private bathroom with a working sink just five feet away.

"Y son? Y?" is all I can think.

Cold Potty Wars

USSR has always been impishly cute, linguistically gifted, naturally sunny and caffeinated .(She never sleeps) She also wants to prove she can go toe to toe with her next older brother. Her older brother USA has staunchly refused all attempts at becoming “a big boy.” More on principle I think.

“He doesn’t want to get his beautiful potty dirty.” was the given explanation. Reeducation camps on what the intended use is for a mini-potty had thus far proved useless, until yesterday.

USSR had finished her shower and sat unprompted on said potty. USA was outraged. “That’s my potty!” he stomped into the closet to suck his thumb and sulk. The little Russian noticed his reaction and proceeded to sing a little song about going to the potty and make little “sssss” sounds. “I’m going potty Yankee boy.” she said several times.

Meanwhile, Captain America humpfed in the closet.

I happened to have some M&M’s in the freezer which I joyfully procured for my daughter. The little member of the Communist block eagerly ate them from my hand and squirmed in her seat. Suddenly, this wasn’t a game. We had the By-George-She’s Got-it-Let’s-sing-the-Rain-in-Spain-Hallelujah-chorus moment of truth. America could not ignore the physical evidence. He had been beaten and she had a fist full of chocolate to show for it.

Any guilt I might have felt for ruining his self esteem evaporated when I remembered, he turns four in a few months.

The next day, USA announced a new policy, “I’m a big boy.” and ate at the table using silverware. He dressed himself. He helped clear the dishes. “Is there anything else I can do for you Mom?” he asked rather archly.

Then the Cossack finished her breakfast and announced she would go to sit on the potty. His face darkened and the thumb sucking started up again as he marched out of the room, I suspect to hash out a rapid response.

Russia had the handle on the situation, she relieved herself properly, asked for her M&M’s and spontaneously did an end zone celebration that would have warranted a penalty for sure in NFL playoff season.

USA knew how to fight back though, he ran upstairs and called down, “I made my bed for you Mom!” I praised his hard work. Little Russia’s face darkened. She ran upstairs. “Me too Mom.”

“You don’t have a bed, you have a crib.” America crowed.
“I made my sister’s bed Mom.” She responded.

Game on.

America rolled up his sleeves and went to work. He made his brother’s bed. He brushed his teeth. He put the cap on the toothpaste. I don’t even do that.

Russia also tried to win in the proliferation approach. She lacked the resources but not the political will. She tried to give the baby a bottle. She also brought me a book and told her brother in a gloatingly superior voice for a two year old, “Turn off the television. It’s bad for you.”

Watching two super power toddlers duke it out via good behavior, the UN puzzled over how this would or could end. Being the UN, I didn’t mind if their little conflict profited me on the side.

Annoyed at being preached to by the enemy, USA went to the garage and got me a diet coke. He thought he had the ace in the hole. So did I. Then USSR brought me the M&M’s. USSR cuddled up to me and USA took off my shoes to rub my feet. It’s good to be the UN.

Tensions were high and likely to result in a full scale incident when I asked if it was potty time. USA manned up and used the big potty. Russia used the little one. America finished first and both of them got plenty of praise and chocolate. End zone dances all around. Just when it seemed like glastnos had broken out, they recognized something about the UN.

“Hey Mom, we should go to McDonalds to celebrate.” USA suggested.
USSR appeared with my purse and keys. “Happy meals?” she said with an unbearably cute grin.

I am in serious trouble Mom wise. They’re colluding.


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