The Great Masculinity Debate

My son has decided that – when he grows up – he wants to be a woman.

(Not that there’s anything wrong with that!)

If he was 17 I’d be worried. But he’s four.

If you believe psychologist Steve Biddulph, it’s got something to do with young boys idolising their mother before switching to their father as the primary role model.

If you believe psychoanalyst Sigmund Freud, it’s got something to do with Oedipus.

But that’s another story.

In a desperate bid to teach Taj about masculinity before he gets beaten up at school, we turned to that great sage – Uncle Chop Chop – for advice on how to ‘harden up’.

His training regime began with wrestling on the lounge room floor, kids’ boxing (“You hit like a girl!”), soccer training (“Stop picking flowers!”), and getting beers from the fridge (well, it is thirsty work).

I suspected it was a losing battle when the boxing trainer said “Drop and give me 10” and Taj did a series of downward dogs, yoga-style.

But the piece de resistance was a testosterone-fuelled footy match.

It was a red-letter day: my team, the Manly Sea Eagles, was playing hubby’s team, the Canterbury Bulldogs.

Rugby league is the closest thing we have to the gladiatorial contests of ancient Rome.

Both feature brutal hand-to-hand combat, crowds baying for blood, and Russell Crowe.

Our Colosseum this particular Saturday was Brookvale Oval.

In between bites of a Four’N Twenty, my husband Jason waxed lyrical about tries, conversions, penalty goals, head high tackles and backward passes.

He yarned about the legends of the game, from Dally Messenger to Terry Hill and the great El Magic.

Three-year-old Grace listened, enraptured, as her father unravelled the mystery of why grown men risk life and limb to run into each other, chasing an oblong ball.

The soliloquy put Taj to sleep while my delicate daughter proceeded to stand on her seat, screaming “Go Doggies, Go!!!!”

Equally ear-piercing, the bloke in the next seat yelled “Kill ‘im! Pummel ‘im! What are ya, a poofter?!”

I’m rather glad my effete son wasn’t awake to hear that.

So how do we teach our sons to be men, without turning them into boofheads?

Kids are told to go to the teacher if someone punches them at school.

But when they do, they’re picked on for being a ‘dirty dobber’.

And if you teach them to hit back, you’re condoning violence.

For boys, these stoushes define their schooling: stand up for yourself and be labelled a rough-nut; walk away and you’re a poofter.

All we can do is to give them the confidence to define themselves.

Yesterday, Taj walked out of my closet swathed in necklaces, tottering on high heels, with a bra slung over his shoulder.

The cherry on top was Dad’s Bulldogs beanie.

“Mum, can we kick the footy in the backyard?” he asked.

Ian Roberts, eat your heart out.

I guess he’s getting in touch with his masculine side after all.