My three son and what I've learned...

from Catholic Womanhood by Cheryl Dickow

I remember when my first son was in need of his first haircut. 
I took him to a professional stylist and, with 35mm camera in 
hand, clicked away, literally walking around and around his 
seat, so that, once developed, the pictures would immortalize
 that very special day in my life, in his life, in the world, I was
sure.

By the time my third son was in need of his first haircut, I let my mom have at it and, as it 

turned out, time did not improve her hair-cutting skills. My youngest son ended up with the 

same bangs that I had worn some 30 years earlier — a wavy line of hair jutting out 

all over the place somewhere between eyebrows and the 

hairline.

Things really do change from the first born to the second and then to the third. And as that is 
all the children we were blessed with, I can go no further with my experience but my 
assumptions would be that by the fifth or sixth child, he or she may very well be performing 
his or her own first haircut.

Now, my oldest is graduating from college, the second is mid-way through his college career, 
and my youngest has almost completed high school. All the years in between those first 
haircuts and this point in time have truly gone by in the blink of an eye.

I can’t say, for sure, what each of my son’s take on things has been; but, for me it has been 
an incredible journey. And I’ll admit that I look back and find great relief that my oldest, in 
particular, has been so forgiving towards me in all the ways I tried to shape and mold him 
into what I thought was right — and certainly in keeping with my post-feminist upbringing 
which included the need to neutralize any distinctions between the sexes along with my 
politically-correct interest in taming all things that could even appear to have a glimmer of “inappropriateness” attached to them.

I remember once when my mother was reading a book to my oldest son. I can’t quite recall 
the book but in retrospect I am positive it was as bland as everything else I allowed into his 
life. She came to some point in the story where, when my husband and I read it, we had 
always chosen to replace some word or phrase with more “proper” words, but not knowing 
better, grandma read the actual words. Well, when he heard her reading it verbatim, he was 
on the floor laughing, “Grandma! It does not say that!” So much for our attempt at politically-
correct censorship.

No matter how hard I tried, though, he was still a “boy.” And that means something. They all 

were, actually, very much “boys.” For instance, they simply weren’t able to pass each other 

in the hall without a push and a shove for good luck. Try as I might to dissuade them, they

were just so “physical” all the time! I once received a note from a teacher who, in all 

seriousness, felt it was imperative to tell me that my son, while playing “Duck-Duck-Goose” 

became so mischievous that he tapped two children instead of one! I can only imagine the 

pandemonium that ensued and my son received from me the sternest of warning against 

such wild classroom antics! At the time I was duly mortified that I would have birthed the 

child who wreaked havoc with “Duck-Duck-Goose” rules.

Of course, despite such notes and other miscellaneous offenses along the way, my boys 
were, in fact, quite good kids — in the grand scheme of things. Sure there were times that 
I was forced to walk away from parent-teacher conferences with a piece of paper held in 
front of my face in hopes of obscuring my identity as I made a beeline towards the door; 
but, all in all they were really fine young boys on their way growing into fine young men.

It’s just that I didn’t have brothers and couldn’t figure out why these boys of mine wouldn’t
sit down and play quietly with one another or do their puzzles in an orderly fashion. I could 
fondly recall how my sisters and I would play school for hours on end. Not a peep out of us 
as we wrote on the chalkboard and assigned one another “homework.”

The closest my boys came to that sort of quiet, structured, group play was when they were 
building Legos; but, for the most part, even that time was spent constructing weapons or
 creating scenarios in which caves, hideouts and counter-attack strategies were necessary.
This, after having been exposed to the dullest of television choices — which were extremely 
time-limited anyhow — and don’t forget censorship galore on all books!

One dinner, when the boys were around 2, 4, and 6 I remember one of them eating a 
piece of bread into the shape of a gun and being completely convinced that I had failed 
as a mother.

“How,” I moaned to my husband, “could they even know about such things?!”
Boys will be boys.

Now that’s a phrase I’m none too fond of but there is some truth to the fact that, well, boys 
will be boys. However, if we understand it not as an excuse for bad behavior but, rather, 
being a plausible testament to some basic genetic truths, we are able to more sufficiently 
appreciate how God created male and female and the path on which each will proceed 
towards developing virtuous behaviors and moral choices. Denying the genetic and natural 
differences between male and female will not make them go away.

And as a mother of all boys — and never having had any brothers — I have grown to love 
the way in which God has made male and female. Raising boys has given me a new 
appreciation of my husband and how, if we are called to the vocation of marriage, we grow 
in beautiful ways when we embrace the unique gifts and talents and personalities of male 
and female.

I am fully convinced that God knew what he was doing when, in His immense wisdom, He 
gave me all sons. I have learned so much about our Creator through my life as a mother 
of boys. So many of the ill-conceived notions about gender-neutrality, which was part and 
parcel of my life as a teenager in the post-radical-feminist-movement that pervaded the 70s, 
have been washed away in the Truth about male and female, their inherent differences, 
their shared dignity, their beauty as having been created, equally but diverse, in His image, 
His likeness.

As my own sons grow into men, I am grateful for the gifts they have received from their 
Creator and feel blessed that I discovered, sooner rather than later, how important their 
unique “maleness” is and how it has been a gift to participate in helping them grow into 
all that God has called them to be as they venture out into the world as men.