Back when I was a wee young thing, navigating the halls of education, desperately hoping not to be shoved into a locker and all the while wishing for a magical genie to pop out of a discarded soda can to magically transform me into one of the cool kids, I would scratch my head and wonder what made boys tick.

Not much has changed since then except for the fact I’m no longer walking the halls of education as I have sprayed painted my way through enough levels of higher education without actually getting educated that my husband has put a moratorium on all education that costs him money. Which is why I spend so much time on the internet. You’d be surprised and amazed by what a gal can learn in the annals of the web. And for FREE!

Also, I no longer fear being shoved into a locker anymore, seeing as how my ass size has expanded and there is no chance I could squeeze one arse cheek into that metal container, let alone both of them.

And the only thing I really want to come out of a bottle these days must contain fermented ethanol.

Huh. So I was wrong. A LOT of things have changed since my school days.

The one thing that hasn’t changed is my total mystification with the male species. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the hairier sex, it’s just I can’t figure out what makes them tick.

Take for example, my husband who makes fart jokes, rebuilds tractor engines for fun, pumps iron for vanity instead of for health and is just as likely to tear up watching a chick flick as he is to cackle with glee during a car explosion in the latest action movie. One moment he can be Mr. Sensitive and the next moment he is the walking definition of an insensitive thug.

And I’ll never understand his males (in general) predilection for girl on girl porn yet seeing two boys hugging sends him males (in general) whimpering into a dark corner so he they can rock back and forth while sucking his their thumb.

And machoism? What in the hell is that all about? It’s just egotastic bitchiness with more back hair in my opinion.

Needless to say, like millions of males moaning about women before me, I just don’t get it.

Which is why I was totally onto something almost 13 years ago when my son Frac was crowning and the doctor was telling me, “You can do it Tanis, just one more push!” and my husband was prattling on useless encouragements all in the hopes of me gathering the strength for one final herculean push to bring forth life and end my labouring misery and I just looked at these men surrounding me, yelling at me to finish it, to just do it, and the only thing I could think of was how I wanted to rip off their penises and beat them with it and I took a deep breath and moaned, “I DON’T WANT TO! I CAN’T DO THIS! JUST PUSH THE BOY BACK IN AND LEAVE US ALONE IN OUR PREGNANT GLORY!!!”

I knew even then, before the boy was brought forth completely and gnawing at my nipple like a rabid bunny chews on a carrot that boys are hard and I’ll never understand them.

Okay, okay, boys aren’t that hard. They’re actually pretty easy in case you have never raised one. I think it’s because they are born with their very own toy attached within easy reach. Boys are vastly easier in comparison to the little poltergeist my oldest daughter has recently morphed into.

That said, as Frac grows older, it’s becoming more and more obvious that I will never understand the grease that turns a man’s wheels.

All of a sudden he went from a Thomas The Train and HotWheels freak to a video game addict to a pimp in training, talking non-stop about cute girls and dating.

It’s freaking me the f*ck out yo!

The other night he was juggling three little twelve year old babes-in-training on gmail chat, flirting with all three at the same time and the next night I heard him on the phone encouraging his best buddy to ask a girl out because apparently this kid is already 13 whole years old and life is passing him by and what is WRONG WITH YOU BOY?

My charming pimp-in-training son then went on, after apparently showing his little best buddy to see the light, to agree to fix up said best buddy with a certain 12 year old babe-in-training, but only if his friend could tell him what was in it for HIM and why should he hook another brotha up without a little somethin-somethin in return.

It’s official. I don’t know how I did it, but apparently I’m raising the next generation of future pimps.

It’s a proud moment I tell ya.

So much for all my hard work in teaching my boy child etiquette, manners and respect for women. I went wrong somewhere, I just can’t figure out where. Either that or his father has been creeping into my kid’s room at night to whisper manly secrets into his ear as he slumbers and subconsciously undoing all my good mothering as the kid sleeps.

Ya. That’s totally it.

In an effort to yank my child back on to the less hormone-crazed path and beat some sense into the child, I dragged Frac to the grocery store with me so we could spend some quality mother and son bonding time together.

It had *nothing* to do with the fact I’m not allowed to lift a jug of milk or bend down to grab a bag of dog food from the bottom shelf.

Heh.

I’m not stupid. I didn’t just give birth to these children for the betterment of society. I had them for all the free slave labour I can wring out of them before they flee this coup.

So as Frac and I replenished our pantry and filled up our shopping basket, I used the time to my advantage and reinforced the idea of respecting females (and males for that matter) as I shuffled down the aisle with my cane.

“I know MOM, SHEESH,” he finally said as we made our way up to the check out counter. “You’ve told me this a hundred times! I get it!!”

Apparently, I may have gone a wee overboard in my zeal to ensure I’m raising a respectful future pimp. Better safe than sorry though, I figured.

“Okay, fine. I’ll drop it as long as you live it and just don’t ignore what I’m telling you. Practice makes perfect after all, kiddo.”

Frac rolled his eyes and put the contents of our small basket on the conveyor belt. Milk, bread, eggs, bacon and ice cream. You know, dietary staples for the recently surgically impaired.

Frac watched the clerk scan each item and pointedly tried to ignore me, as though he was afraid I’d bring up an embarrassing subject in front of a complete stranger. It’s like the kid knows me or something.

When the cashier scanned the box of chicken breasts we had picked out, Frac’s mouth fell open in amazement.

“Holy cow!!” he said as the clerk looked up and grinned at him.

“Ya, chicken breasts are expensive,” she smiled to us.

Frac fell silent for a second and then looked at the cashier and replied, “Ya, I guess my dad was right.”

“Really Frac? And just what was your dad right about?” I arched my eyebrow and inquired as the clerk looked on curiously.

“He always says anything with breasts is gonna cost you, and boy, he wasn’t kidding!!”

It was then I realized, I’m fighting a losing battle. I may as well just give in and ask for a cut of his future earnings as the world’s newest pimp.