How to Mold a Child

My son turned a wooden toy fishing rod into a sniper rifle, using paper cutouts and a lot of that clear heavy tape we try to save for wrapping packages. It has a couple of grips on the bottom and a sight on the top. I sort of hate it. He won’t go on a walk with me unless he brings it and each of us has our own toy weapon to play Star Wars with. I hate that too; I would like to take a leisurely walk in the neighborhood with my kid, talking about real-world things while getting a bit of exercise.

I’ve been assured that little boys make weapons out of everything, no matter how little violent media they’ve been exposed to at home. I know that it’s all fantasy to my kid, and there is probably no need for his dad and me to occasionally interrupt the playtime with a lecture on the horror of guns in real life. We can’t seem to help it. There is such an uncomfortable resemblance between this type of play and the real gun violence that plagues our country. Whenever my kid expresses glee over a new toy gun he has built, or about some First Order weapon depicted in detail in one of his Star Wars books, I reflexively try to shut it down by telling him emphatically that real guns are not cool.

He responds with patience but persistence: “Yeah mom, I’m listening, but it’s just Star Wars and I just think this blaster looks really cool!” I can tell he’s a little frustrated with my repetition on this topic, so I back off when I hear that weariness in his voice.

It’s pointless to try battling my child’s benign interests, but I’m afraid that if I don’t exert some control, his predilections will set like cement into a mold that doesn’t match the shape of person I hope him to become. It’s not just the gun play; I am sure that’ll pass. I worry about his receding engagement with anything outside his narrow spheres of interest. There are only three things he’s openly willing to do outside of school: play video games, play with toys with me (mostly involving battles), and watch television (mostly Star Wars). Getting him to do anything else is a struggle. We live next to two sweet little girls, who wave and call my son’s name when they see him in the yard. The three of them used to have play dates together, and now he barely returns their greetings. He only wants to play with me, he says, which makes my heart drop a little.

I worry that we’ve let him sink too far into his comfort zone. Today he actually suggested going to the farmers market, likely because he remembered how fun it was two weekends ago when he reluctantly went along and ended up having a great time. But when I finished my morning chores and went to his room to prompt him to get off the iPad and put shoes on, he changed his mind. Again my heart dropped, but I didn’t push the matter because it had been his idea to begin with. However, it must have irritated me deep down, because I blew up when he later refused to come out to lunch with me. “You have to get up off your butt and do stuff out of the house!” I yelled, misdirecting anger at him when I know that I’m responsible for the couch potato behavior.

I try to embrace and encourage the things he enjoys. I’ve gotten better at leaning into playtime with an understanding that that’s how he like to connect with me, even though I’d rather be teaching him Uno or Mad Libs instead of fighting with a LEGO Darth Maul for the tenth time. I absolutely loved Mad Libs when I was a kid. My son is very verbally acute, so I want him to love Mad Libs too. But he’s not interested when I offer to do one with him. This weighs on my heart too, because I thought he was too young to find everything Mom suggests uncool.

I also loved school when I was a little kid, but he doesn’t seem to, at least not yet. The only parts he likes are lunchtime and aftercare, when he gets to play with friends. His dad and I have talked about the importance of school and how fun it is to learn new things. But at the dinner table, when we ask how his day was, he finds a way to talk about Minecraft with a readiness that makes me think he’s just been daydreaming about it all day. I don’t know what kind of experience he’s really having in school, except that he’s told me more than one time, at drop-off, that he hates it. That makes my heart sink more than anything.

I know that feeling offended isn’t the answer. I must be more careful about keeping my complicated feelings to myself (and this blog), rather than expressing anything in front of my son that seems like disappointment. He’s just a little boy, and he’s smart and fun and well loved. My parental molding, for better or worse, takes place every day in ways I can’t see. He is still discovering himself in big leaps, and his parents—as long as we stay receptive—have the privilege of getting to know him at the same time. The more I keep an open heart, the more I learn about how to guide him effectively.

In fact, while I was in the middle of writing this piece, he consented, after some firm nudging, to do a Mad Lib with me and he loved it.