I always imagined raising a pack of boys. A lot of boys. I love the daughter I have now, of course, but before I had kids it never occurred to me I might actually have one.
Now my only experience with a pack of boys is our Cub Scout pack, and it’s delightful.
Last night we were at Golden Gardens beach to roast hot dogs and s’mores, and it was dreamy to watch them run, play, tackle, stuff their faces, and get dirty.
There’s just no drama with boys. Your hot dog falls into the fire? AWESOME! I GET TO ROAST ANOTHER ONE. You get hit in the face with a plastic shovel? AWESOME! I GET TO SPIT UNTIL THE SAND IS OUT OF MY MOUTH.
My favorite part of the night was watching the boys decode a secret message that was a clue to where the marshmallows were buried.
It took them quite awhile to dig out the canister, mostly because no one took point and delegated who would dig and who would remove dirt, and there was one kid who kept yelling EVERYONE STAND BACK, but no one listened.
I followed the example of the other parents, though, and didn’t get involved, even though I desperately wanted to take control and make it easier for them.
I realized the longer it took, the more fun it became, because the best part is the digging, the yelling, the conquest, and the well-earned victory.