Riding on trains with boys

There's nothing like a long train ride to finetune your eavesdropping skills (as a writer, I like to call this 'research'). Catching the Fibrotown Express back from Sydney with the Misters, I was privy to four different conversations involving the males of our species. They went something like this.

Conversation #1
The participants: An elderly man and a younger woman, possibly late forties.
The duration: Two hours.
What began as a desultory conversation about the weather, somewhere around Redfern, ranged across a huge diversity of subject matter. She is at university, caring for an elderly father, and passionate about camellias. She leaves home at the crack of dawn to see a dentist in Sydney because she can't imagine going to anyone else. He is an immigrant, from Europe, after World War II, interested in politics. They have a lively and engaged debate about everything from the Carbon Tax to manners to her university degree. The subject of what happens to us when we get older came up a lot. The importance of having a hobby or interest. I suspect their trip went very quickly.

Conversation #2
The participants: Three older teenagers, around 17 years old
The duration: Twenty minutes
These three got on in a clatter of skateboards and a flicking of fringes about halfway through the journey. There was a lot of discussion about hair. Specifically about how girls wouldn't look at you unless you had 'the full mop'. One young man outlined his attempts to get back into school - life in the 'outside world' wasn't really working out. The conversation turned to girls, specifically to one young lady who was 'tuning' the guy with the biggest hair but whom he was resisting. "Why?" asked his friend. "She's pretty hot." "She has her V-plates on," was the response. "I don't want to be responsible for her losing those." Everybody nodded in a serious, understanding kind of manner. "I've passed her on to [another boy]. I'm hoping he'll sort it out."

Conversation #3
The participants: Two younger teens, around 14 or so
The duration: Ten minutes
As the older teens vacated the seat behind me, these two could be seen to be saying goodbye to some girls in short shorts on the platform. One received a goodbye kiss, the other a tiny wave. Both boys are at that puppy fat-plus-pimples stage that is pictured next to 'awkward' in the dictionary. They slump into their seats just as the train takes off. There is much sighing. "I really like her," says one to the other. "You should totally tell her," says the other to the one. There is much back and forth, and attempts to use a mobile phone that has little prepaid credit on it. "I won't tell her," says the one to the other. "Yeah, right, better to keep her guessing," says the other to the one.

Conversation #4
The participants: Mr4 and Mr7
The duration: About 476 hours
Put two small boys on a long train ride and you have to imagine that at some point the conversation will run out. But it does not. In between building Lego and intermittent wrestling bouts, Mr4 has many questions and Mr7, to his credit, does his best to answer them (because clearly his mother is far too busy listening to other people's conversations to listen to theirs) before handing over the hard ones to me. So I got: "Why do we need to scratch, Mum?" along with "What makes a bruise, Mum?", "What is coal, Mum?", "How come there are no more steam trains, Mum?" "What's the fastest shark in the world, Mum?", "Why are turtles yellow on their tummies, Mum?" and so on and so forth.

Little boys, little questions, big boys, big questions.

Are you a chronic eavesdropper?


[image: via weheartit.com]

He'll be all right... won't he?

I've been thinking a lot about boys lately. In a motherly kind of way. As opposed to the way I used to think about them when I was, say, 16. Actually, perhaps not that different. I was born 40 after all (just ask my Mum).

A little while ago, a friend handed me Raising Boys by Steve Biddulph to read. I have read it before. In that 'I've got to interview the author in ten minutes, what will I ask him?' kind of frenzy. But I did not have two little boys at the time. This time, I'm having a long hard look at it. I can, for example, vouch for the testosterone boost at four. I have now experienced it twice. It's big.

Being a mother of boys brings its own challenges. I remember once thinking that I'd got off lightly. I knew what I was like as a little girl, and then as a teenager, and figured that if I never had to deal with another me I was doing all right.

What I hadn't factored in was the sheer boyishness of boys. And young men. This has been brought home to me not once, not twice, but three times in the last few days.

I was driving my two out to visit some friends in a nearby town on Thursday. I had pulled left, out of the overtaking lane, and was debating the origins of The Wand of Destiny with Mr7 with one eye on the right lane that I needed to get back into within 50 or so metres. In my side mirror, I watched a car pull out into that lane, and zoom past me at well over 120km an hour - just to get in front of me. Within a whisker of the back of the senior citizen doing 90km.

P plater. Four young men in the car. As we continued on up the highway, me behind them, the guy in the back right-hand seat proceeded to open the back door and pretend to get out. At 100km an hour.

Boys.

On Saturday night, The Builder and I attended a 50th birthday party. Old friends of The Builder. A tight, close-knit circle of people who'd all grown up in the same suburb. He was the little brother who was drawn into the circle as he got older.

The 21-year-old son of the birthday boy pulled his Bieber-esque fringe back to reveal the huge, right-angled scar that went from the middle of his forehead, right back up along his hairline. He had dived into the shallow end of a pool after a few drinks and smashed his head into the tiles. We both agreed that he wouldn't be doing that again. We both agreed that he was lucky.

Boys.

I had a long chat with another of the circle. His son was injured 18 months ago. Lighting the firework that he was holding in his own hand. He will never be the same again, but his father spoke with obvious pride of his progress. He is back at work. He is driving. He is closer to his parents than he has ever been. All of them wish that one moment, that one decision, had never happened.

Boys.

"Little kids, little problems. Big kids, big problems." That has been the sage advice that the Birthday Boy has given The Builder and I every time we get together and discuss our kids. He and his mates, all a bit wild in their youth, are also firm believers in allowing boys the freedom to learn their lessons. Some of those lessons are hard. Harder than I can bear to think about. Particularly given that 'No', 'Stop', 'Don't', and 'You'll hurt yourself' are among my favourite phrases.

This afternoon, my two boys wrapped themselves in cellophane strips and proceeded to 'Cowabunga, Dude' a path of destruction around the Fibro. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles are the heroes du jour. Noisy, messy, physical.

Boys.

They'll be all right... Won't they?