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Sugar and Spice
Who's Easier? Boys or Girls?
By Debbie Farmer
I have concluded that the answer to whether girls or boys are easier to raise depends on whom you ask. Mothers of boys say girls are definitely easier, while mothers of girls insist raising six boys equals the work of one girl. The mothers of both sexes declare that taming rabid chimps in the wild is easier than raising either one.
At least boys speak the English language. Their words directly correspond to what they mean. "Hungry" correlates to food and "thirsty" to water. With girls, "hungry" could mean "I'm bored," "Get up so I can change the station" or "I want Teacher Barbie." To a boy, "No" means "No." To a girl it means, "I'll go ask Daddy."
My son can handle getting hurt better than my daughter. "Owie," he'll say, holding out his hurt appendage for a kiss.
The last time my daughter got a splinter in her finger, it took seven people holding her down, eight sterilized needles and a local anesthetic to remove it. Afterward, she wore every adhesive bandage in the house and fanned herself while singing "Nobody Knows the Trouble I've Seen" to anyone who came within 10 feet.
With girls, everything looks fine on the outside. When my son's bedroom door is closed, I know he's either playing with his toys or sleeping. When my daughter's door is closed, she's either not in there, trimming the cat's bangs or plotting how to break into my room, try on all the lipstick and blame it on her brother.
Boys are usually a lot easier to impress. "The dog is throwing up a pair of pink Barbie shoes in Dad's slipper. Cool."
Girls will turn it into a way to acquire 10 new Barbies, a bike, a compact disc player and a color TV for their room.
My son is honest about responding to my requests. He either does what I ask him to do or refuses. My daughter makes deals faster than a used car salesman.
"Can you please put away the toys in your room?" I plead.
"I can't because I don't have a giant, pink ballerina toy box like Stephanie."
"Put them in your wooden one."
"But my finger still hurts."
"I'm going to count to five!" I put my hand on my hips.
"Six," she counters.
"Four, or I'm giving them to your brother."
"Seven and a Polly Pocket watch."
"Three," I threaten.
"Five and a Cinderella ring," she states firmly.
"Deal." She shakes my right hand.
The other day, over coffee, my friend asked me which I'd prefer if I became pregnant again. I considered for a moment. I thought about how they both wrapped their arms around my neck and whispered "I love you" into my ear when I tucked them into bed, and how they both needed the same hall light shining in the dark. I realized that their outward behavior was different, but inside they were quite similar. They needed me as much as I needed both of them.
"Either a boy or a girl would be fine," I finally said. "Just as long as they are happy and healthy." I paused, then added, "And not twins."
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