Confession

I'm lying back, propped up on on my elbows, on the side of a grassy hill in a public park in the city where I live. F is leaning back on my stomach, his baseball hat askew, his grubby hands reaching into the Pirate Booty bag. He pops the cheese puff in his mouth and reaches for another which he feeds to me, giggling as my tongue touches his white-coated fingers. The sun is out and there's a stillness in the air. It's in this moment that I can stop and be grateful that we can have this time together.

There are other moments, though, when I can admit to myself what a toll staying home as a full-time caregiver has taken on me, on my psyche, on my body. I carry around daily physical reminders of my struggle; the extra weight on my frame, more poundage than one of my five-year-olds, envelopes me. No, I haven't gained the weight from eating my kids' leftovers. It's just been from eating. Eating when I am tired. Eating when I am frustrated. Eating when I'm lonely and my self-doubt is consuming. Yes, it's nonsensical-- food doesn't make F sleep later in the morning; food doesn't make C put his shoes on more quickly; food doesn't form community around me; food doesn't give me worth or value.

And I am afraid to put into words how low the extra weight drags me down. I expect everyone I meet to judge me as harshly as I judge myself. And I wonder constantly why don't I just stop, why can't I just stop, how do others have this figured out and I don't. And sadly because I feel this way about myself, my memories will be the only reminders of hanging in the park with my two-year-old leaning up against me, giggling, because I would never allow a camera to capture the moment. I have loads of pictures of my sons, but none with me in them.

You know you're in trouble when...

you look around your home and see so many puzzle pieces strewn about that you finally can no longer ignore them, and you tell your two-year-old, who loves to open up puzzle boxes and scatter the pieces everywhere like a destructive version of Johnny Appleseed , that it is time to clean up, and since he ignores you, you start singing the "Clean Up" song, you know, the one that is incredibly annoying but often shockingly effective, Clean up, clean up, everybody everywhere.... , and said two-year-old turns back to you and mimics the tune perfectly with his own, new lyrics:

TV, TV, I want to watch TV. TV, TV, I want to watch TV.

I guess I've been saying yes a bit too often...

P will be home in nine days. Nine. At that time, we will be unplugging the TV and packing it away.

Worth Reading

I love reading. I believe in the power of words. Stories can often move me to tears. As soon as I am done reading something moving and powerful and solid and real, I immediately want to share it with others so they can read it, too. And, maybe, we can even talk about what we've read.

I just finished something well worth reading. I was listening to NPR this morning and heard this reporter, Joanna Connors, being interviewed. Connors just published an account of her rape 20+ years ago and her investigation about its lasting effects on her and her family, and about the man who did it. I went to her paper to read the series, and I while I know this is not a cheerful thing--- the story is really worth reading. Really.

Beyond Rape: A Survivor's Journey by Joanna Connors, Cleveland Plain Dealer

Maaw-Waige

It seems there is a new topic for intense discussion during quiet/rest-time in C and S's classroom-- marriage (I guess they discuss it quietly). I haven't been able to suss out the full story of what inspired such conversation, but have been hearing tidbits of the talk during the evenings. I find that the boys don't like to discuss school right after pick-up, but if I time my so-what-happened-today questions just right, I usually get glimpses into their lives spent away from us.

I have always hated the sexualizing of children. I'm not even referring to the ridiculous clothing with outrageous sayings marketed to young girls and don't get me started on those.... those Br***z dolls. I'm including those 'innocuous' questions people ask three-year-olds; "So do you have a girlfriend yet?" since I don't find them innocuous in the least. I really managed to piss off one of my NYC neighborhood moms when the twins were four-months-old. Six years ago there seemed to be a big ol' batch of boys born up in Washington Heights, and many of these new mamas found each other while walking laps around Ft. Tryon Park, self included. One day, our informal posse gathered for some companionship and it turned out there were six infant boys and one girl. The mom of the girl remarked, "Oh, lucky her! She'll have her choice of boyfriends." "Unless they are interested in each other," I quickly replied. I don't make assumptions about my sons' sexual orientation and truly, what a silly thing to say about infants anyway. Hey, wanna ride in my double stroller? I can imagine the pick-up lines now. Mom of Baby Girl did not like my retort and I don't think we did too much hanging from them on. Maybe she found my response obnoxious. Maybe she didn't like the idea of her child being rejected. Maybe she was a proponent of (cough-cough) "traditional" marriage.

Anyway, marriage talk has infiltrated the five-year-olds' classroom. Here's what I learned:

C: I asked Serena that when we grow up, would she marry me, but she said no. Maybe I'll ask her again and tell her how fun it is to be a wife.

Wow, I didn't know I was such a role model for the funness of wifedom! And then:

S: Fiona really wanted to marry Jacob but we took a vote. We decided that I should marry Jacob. Now we just need to figure out how to adopt children.

So kids have no issue imagining this possibility. Why so much trouble for some adults? And I can no longer abide by the 'religious' excuse. Are these same folks not eating lobster? Are they stoning their daughters? Do they really know what the Bible says in context about the issue? Do they know what Jesus said? (That would be nothing, and remember with whom he was hanging out day after day). On the back of our minivan, we've affixed two stickers: One is of the Episcopal Church. The other reads Love ALL families. Support ALL marriage. I guess my sons and some of their classmates have gotten this message.

Go, Massachusetts. Go, California. We hope Connecticut is right behind ya.

The Jonahs Brothers

Another rainy afternoon in New Haven:

The Case of the Unadorned Coats, Shoes, and Pajamas

One of the most magical moments of parenthood for me is watching my children read. First, it was fun to watch them grab for and gum the books. My youngest, in particular, loved to devour good literature, in the literal sense, and we have tattered books with huge bite marks out of them to prove it. Then it was great when the boys sat on our laps and engaged with stories, pointing, grunting, then making comments, asking questions, begging us to reread them, and sometimes even acting out the plots. S always did a convincing Olivia. It has been equally wonderful to watch them develop particular attachments for certain books. One obsession, the Magic School Bus series (both the original and the less engaging ones with stories taken from the television shows) , lasted well over a year and we now have a separate bin just for MSB books that would rival any library collection.

My oldest two were early readers. This is something a bit difficult to talk or write about because it invariably sounds like I am bragging. However, since I honestly take no credit for their reading and see plenty of other things the boys struggle with (that may come easily to others), I view it more as a statement of fact than oh-what-a-great-mom-I-am and oh-aren't-my-children-brilliant sort of thing. Yes, the boys have grown up in a print-rich environment, a fancy, educator's way of saying that P and I have a huge collection of books, newspapers, and magazines, read constantly ourselves, and have a hard time leaving a bookstore without a bulging bag. Yet most everyone we know has exposed her/his kids to books early on, read to them on a regular basis, and have their own book collections. We did not actively teach the guys to read. They learned it on their own with the help, I strongly suspect, of some good kids' television. We weren't secretly pushing phonics or quizzing them with sight word cards like some scene from a parody of the over-the-top parents interested in their two-year-olds prepping for their Harvard application sixteen years early. It actually took someone who doesn't live in our house to clue us in that the boys were full-out reading, not reciting well-known stories from memory.

There are a few downsides to have early readers, I have to say. I get asked questions about topics I haven't been prepared for, like one inquisitive three-year-old, viewing an advertisement in a newspaper in a bakery--a bakery!, and asking, "What are Hooters, mommy?" ("They're not a nice way of talking about women's breasts," I replied truthfully, because we all know they aren't referencing owls.) I hold my breath just a bit while driving the interstate, passing billboards for 'gentleman's' clubs and erotic boutiques, now that we live in a state that allows billboard advertising, waiting for the inquiries from the back seats. I need to be constantly aware what is on my computer screen when the boys are around and one guy, in particular, loves reading over my shoulder as I blog ("Are you writing another story about us now?"). Finally, getting so engrossed with reading, has caused potty accidents and grand delays, worse than any of the airlines' these days, in putting on shoes, coats, pajamas, etc.

A few weeks ago, the boys spent the night with one of my sisters. On the way home from her house, the twins pulled out the booty they acquired from the remains of older cousins: Encyclopedia Brown books. They were so excited to tell me about this boy detective and I became excited as well because 1. I loved Encyclopedia Brown as a girl and 2. it would not have occured to me that they could read those books now. It is so fun and fascinating to hear them talk about the characters I spent so much time with as a kid: Encyclopedia himself, Sally, Bugs. Since their initial introduction, we have made two forays to the library, tracking down more EC books in the S- shelves (Sobol), and thankfully, there are many to be found. And now at night, after p.j.'s are on, teeth are brushed, and the boys have climbed into bed, C and S request that the lights remain on, just for "three more cases, Mom, just three more". As a flashlight-under-the-blanket-reader kid myself, I don't have the ability to say no to that.

All the other kids have much cooler moms than you do

For the first time ever--but certainly not the last-- this morning, one of my children uttered, "It's not fair. All the other kids get to___________!" Now the first part of this statement has been repeated endlessly for the past months as the older two have become obsessively concerned with perceived fairness, especially in terms of each other. Yes, I know it's developmentally appropriate, but it doesn't make it any less annoying. However, the second part of this phrase threw me for a loop. I knew I would hear it at some point--just not this soon.

I had to bite back the words that immediately jumped in my brain and/or were some sort of Pavlovian response from my own childhood: Either a comeback full of great sarcasm (and five-year-olds don't get sarcasm and it's just mean, anyway) or the infamous "Well, you're not like all the other kids. You're a/an ___________ (fill in last name here)!" The second response must have been taught at parenting school in the 1960s-70s as both my husband and I have talked about hearing that endless times growing up and swore we would never say it to our own kids. It was so fraught with both expectation and elitism. While pregnant, we would laugh about doubling up on the kid with a "You're an A-------C-------!" where the child would get the weight of both sets of names and all the numerous expectations that combination carries.

Don't get me wrong. I love being identified with my family name. I kept it when I was married and all three of my sons carry it as their middle name. When my father died this past December, I was moved beyond words reading his obituary and seeing the list of names he was survived by, six of the seven children still carrying our family name. A----, A----, A----, etc. just had some sort of power to it.

So, when I heard the "all the other kids" thing, I pushed back my initial responses and went for an innocuous, "Well, all different families do different things. Different families have different rules." And despite my vow to say, "yes'' this week, I still didn't let them watch television before school this morning because that's how we roll in the A------C------ household.


*And no, I didn't bring out the if-all-the-other-kids-jumped-off-the-bridge response either---yet.

Saying 'Yes'

For the next two plus weeks, I'm gonna say, "Yes." I'm gonna say "yes" to television and endlessly repeated dinner choices and treats and computer time. I'm saying, "Yes." I'm not going to fuss over vegetables or too much time in front of a screen or short and clean fingernails or having to repeat, "Put your shoes on" over and over (OK, that one may be hard). I'm saying, "Yes."

For in these next two weeks or so, if I say "yes," my sons will not suddenly become overindulged, impolite, nonreading, slug-like, or violent creatures. The truth of the matter is that for all the times I complained about my parents being "the strictest parents ever" (and they were honestly the strictest parents I've personally known), in the end, I, too, have become a strict mom. I say "No" often and most of the time, I am right to say "no." And my boys, for the most part, know limits and use polite words and treat others kindly. And all of this matters.

However, while their dad is away on his African adventures, I'm saying, "Yes." I've decided that I am sticking closely to the set bedtime, for their sakes and mine, but other than that, all the other stuff can slide. I will keep them safe and I will keep them fed and I will keep them from pummeling one another, but they will eat hotdogs for dinner more than once a week, and they'll likely hang in front of the t.v. for too many hours, and they'll jump on the couch, and they'll create spectacular messes, and we'll go out frequently for chocolate ice cream.

And you know what? It will all be OK. And we'll enjoy our time together while we miss P. And I'll say,"Yes," and they'll smile and laugh and delight in all these "Yeses."

Just remind me of this tomorrow....

Out of the Mouths of My Babes...

Some of my favorite quotes of the week:

C: I can't sleep and it's not because of the talking. It's just that I still have movement in my body.

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S: People say you can't make red because it's a primary color, but you really can make red because if you mix red with red--it makes red!

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As I nibble his neck and ear:
F: No, I am not a pancake!

The Ring

This past week, P and I have been frantically running errands trying to make headway on our incredibly long 'to do' list. It is difficult to believe that we have lived in New Haven for nearly a whole year as we still feel like newbies on many fronts. Much of the past 11 months has been spent in survival mode-- just get done what is necessary for that particular day, not much movement on life beyond that. Therefore, we are taking advantage of this week with both of us home to mail the packages that have been sitting on our dressers for months, bring the loud-screeching vacuum to the repair guy, get boys' health forms completed for day camp, etc. Today, we brought my wedding band to the jeweler's to get re-sized-- finally.

I guess P got tired of seeing it sitting on the windowsill above the sink where I had put it after wrestling it off my finger some time ago. The truth was that the band was always a bit small, but ten years of marriage, three kids, and too many pounds gained to name on a public blog later had made it incredibly uncomfortable. Taking my wedding band off was no literal or metaphorical statement about the state of our marriage. The truth is that my wedding band just no longer fits me. I did find it interesting that the skin beneath the band had grown white and puckered, just a little bit raw, certainly worn and changed. Maybe that's a general metaphor about marriage, but I think of when I got that ring--- I never would have taken it off. Never. Not for anything. Now with our marriage partnership coming up on ten years, with three sons, three moves, the deaths of both my parents, one huge career change, a potentially big health issue, somehow the physical ring doesn't make me feel any more married. It's these other things, intense shared experiences, that make me married.

Please don't misunderstand. I love my ring. It suits me perfectly. I love its history. I love the story behind it.

P and I became engaged as Peace Corps volunteers serving in the Philippines. We had met the first week of training. We arrived in Manila on a Sunday, kissed by the following Friday evening (in a crazy bar called the Hobbit House that was staffed by little people, but perhaps we'll save that story for another post), and that was pretty much it. When we went off to our respective sites, we wrote letters to one another--lots of letters-- mimicking, perhaps, an old-fashioned courtship. Thankfully, we were posted on the same island so were only eight hours and three buses apart. We made that trip whenever we could, and I remember Sunday mornings when he visited me at my site, walking him to the bus stop and shedding incredible amounts of tears, thinking about not seeing him for two weeks, maybe three or more. Sitting on the jeepney back to my home after his departures were some of the most desolate trips I ever took. I imagine the Filipinos, witnessing this pale, tall, white woman, with her knees crunched up on the small seat benches, with red-rimmed eyes, calling out "Bayad-do" in a small, croaky voice, must have thought I was quite a strange foreigner indeed.

After landing in the hospital for the second time thanks to some cheeky parasites who made themselves at home in his intestines, P headed back to NYC to check in with a doctor there. When he left, we didn't know if he would return. He wanted to fulfill his two-year commitment to the Peace Corps, but it was unclear if his GI track or the Peace Corps health advisers would allow it. I remember thinking that this was the first time, really the first time, I would ever contemplate entirely altering my plans for a guy (and I was 28!). If he couldn't return, I would be faced with a dilemma. To steal that well-known line from The Clash, I kept thinking, "Should I stay or should I go" if he couldn't return. I had been raised to never quit anything; no matter what, you stuck it out. I had worked hard to make connections with people at my site, but here I had found P and I couldn't imagine being separated from him for a year-- really, really physically separated.

Thankfully, I never had to make that decision and we were both incredibly joyous when he returned. Our kind program director had scheduled us to train the incoming volunteers in the same week so we could be together, which happened to coincide with P's return. We ran our workshops, schmoozed with the new PCVs, enjoyed spending time with our former language instructors, but were happy when our commitments ended so we could head off for an overnight trip to a tiny, beautiful and lush island off the coast of Dumaguete, where the training happened, called Apo Island. We had visited Apo once before with our fellow batchmates during our training, when our relationship first blossomed, so this was its own sort of coming-home. We were the only tourists on the island that night and we chose the best nipa hut, octagonally-shaped, situated on a slight hill, overlooking the beach and water. That evening, over warm Coke and bad corn chip (Chippies), with the sunset being blocked by a large and poorly-situated rock, P slid a small jade box with a red ribbon across the table to me. Assuming it was a birthday gift as he had been back at home on the day, I was surprised to find the white gold band and even more surprised to hear the "Will you marry me" question-- so much so, that my first, far-from-eloquent utterance was (and I am not proud of this fact), "Are you shitting me?"

P went on to tell me that this had been his grandmother's wedding band, and knowing that I wasn't a diamond girl, he thought it would suit me well. I never met any of P's grandparents, nor he mine, but I knew two things about this grandma: 1). She and her husband died three days apart. His grandfather, at P's grandmother's funeral, said he didn't know how he would live without his wife and he didn't, sinking into my mother-in-law's arms mere days later. 2). She must have been small. Really small. We call my mother-in-law The Elf Queen, in part because she is under five feet tall so I gather that neither of her parents were particularly tall. So here it was relatively remarkable that I could get her band on my finger in the first place. I wore the ring on my right hand for the year of our engagement and switched it to my left hand during our wedding ceremony. And it has sat on my hand these past nine-and-three-quarter years (as my five-and-three-quarter-year-old boys would say), until it became so tight, I soaped it up and yanked it off my finger, and sat it upon the windowsill over the kitchen sink.

Now, we suddenly seem to have hit a stage in our lives where we have a few friends begining separation and divorce proceedings. And I have to admit, I get this--not because I think we are headed there-- but I get how complicated and tough marriage and partnership are in ways that I never did during my teens or the easy times before children. And I stop for a moment to be thankful that I got lucky enough to meet P when I did, when the time was right for both of us, and remain somewhat awed at how well-suited we are for one another. And I am thankful that he's been a true partner in this crazed adventure known as parenthood, in ways well beyond most men I know are, even the progressive, involved, sensitive ones.

And so as my wedding band sits with a jeweler for the next ten days to be heated and stretched--surely a metaphor in that one-- I say good-bye to P for the next 18 days, the longest time we have ever been away from each other since we married. He's off to Ghana on an incredible adventure, but one we can't share together due to three little people living in our home that need us. I will look forward to slipping the now-fitted band back on my finger, and I will look forward to having P home again.

Lose a Tooth, Gain Some Authority

Exiting news in our house. A tooth has been lost--the first lost tooth of the next generation and C now has the cute, tell-tale gap in his smile. He came to us at 1:15 in the morning to report that it had popped out. I hoped I was appropriately excited for him in my state of half-consciousness. How he woke up and realized it was gone is beyond me. We knew it was wiggly for a day or so, but he opted to let it take the natural course and fall out on its own (as opposed to his dad yanking it out--a job I could never do) with a bit of help from a probing tongue. Now why it had to choose the wee hours of the morning to free itself from his mouth and couldn't fall out as he bit into an apple at, say, 3:00PM, added some mystery to the moment.

While P and I know intellectually that this is an everyday occurrence around the globe, it just felt big to us, some sort of marked confirmation that yes, our sons are growing up. I actually got a bit verklempt over this tiny sliver of white sitting in C's palm. S, too, got a bit teary-- for different reasons, however. No matter how many times we try to make the point that while they are twins and this is special, they are really their own people-- it seems that they do view themselves as a unit or package, a fixed entity. S explained that he was jealous that C had a lost tooth and he didn't. Suddenly, C gained some new authority in S's eyes-- and C's as well. They reckoned that since C lost a tooth first, he must really be the older brother and the boys have talked about this fact for the past three days. To C's credit, though, he immediately began making plans to share his expected bounty from the tooth fairy (and displaying some solid math skills): "I'll give S three of the dollars and keep the other two dollars for me."

Whoa--hold the floss! FIVE DOLLARS. Where did he get that notion? The price per tooth went up from a quarter in the years since I was six? After a bit of discussion, P and I slipped two quarters into an envelope and surreptitiously placed it under C's pillow while the boys slept the following night. In the morning, C ran into our room excitedly, clutching the unopened envelope. Ceremoniously, he ripped it open, let out an appreciative, "Wow!" and immediately passed one quarter over to S. Now how's that for confirmation of growth?

If You Need a Day to Be Nice to Your Mother...

My mother was not a fan of Mother's Day. Let me repeat--my mom, a mother of seven children born in ten years (no multiples! yup, nearly ten years pregnant straight through), did not like to celebrate Mother's Day. She insisted on no gifts and always tried to downplay this day designated to celebrate and thank our mamas. It wasn't that she didn't want to be appreciated for all her work or acknowledged for what she did for us. In fact, as we grew older and moved out of the house, my mom insisted that my siblings and I call her on our birthdays as a way of thanking her for her (big) part in making it our birthdays. Sure, come that Sunday in May, she would accept those grungy cards we made in elementary school, but she did not want any part in this Hallmark or other-commercial entity's holiday, puffing, "If you need a day to be nice to your mother..."

While I respect so much of what my mom did for us, my feelings are far different than hers were towards Mother's Day. Hell, I look forward to this day for months. It's not that I am waiting for flowers or jewelry or even breakfast in bed (but I do love, love, love it when P brings me coffee while I am still wrapped up in the sheets, prying my eyes open). While these are certainly kind and thoughtful gestures, I am not particularly interested. No, what we've established as our traditional way to celebrate Mother's Day fits me perfectly-- a day completely free of mothering. Yup. I'll happily take the boys' morning kisses, cuddles, and hugs, but then joyfully wave them off for the day, preferably waving from bed, still in my pajamas, with a steaming mug of coffee. I spend my Mother's Day alone, completely by myself, in my own home. Wow.

Before I had kids, I rarely yearned for time alone and would look for endless opportunities to hang with family and friends. However, in the last six years, there has been so little time by myself. If I am ever driving alone in the minivan, it startles me when I look in the review mirror and see the three empty carseats; it completely catches me off-guard since it it rarely happens. In fact, it is far more normal for me not only to be with at least one of my guys, but to have one of them physically hanging off me as if my life were a perpetual three-legged race. I can't even seek refuge in the bathroom given an apartment with one toilet for five people and little fellows who have yet to understand the concept of privacy. Now, I jump at the opportunity to go to the movies by myself or at least, hide in the bath with a book. But to be in my home, by myself, it really does not happen. So I say--- there should be more Mother's Days. Perhaps once a month? Every third month?

I do know that there will come a time when my boys are grown and busy hanging with others far more cool than I. And when this happens, I will hope to spend that designated May Sunday with my fellows. But it's like this-- One day I will also complain that my sons sleep until noon or that they are eating us out of house and home. But as they now wake too darn early and their dad and I actually beg them to eat a slice of pizza, I live for the days of late waking and big eating.

So here's to our current Mother's Day tradition. The day when I can sleep for as long as I want, laze in bed with a good book, watch whatever I want on TV, and the only bum I need to wipe is my own. Yes, I married a good man. He need not buy me diamonds and pearls. Just take our sons and go away!

So for this I say, Yes, we need a day to be nice to your mother or at least to this mother. I sure wish I could say this to my own mom. If only I knew this, if I had been a mom, when I lost mine...

Early Morning Scenes in My Home

You squeeze your eyes shut and try to roll away from the pudgy hands grasping at your face. The clock blinks an ugly five-something-something. You just know it is too early to be awake. You've stayed up too late--yet again--reading, and that little body seems to be making more frequent forays into your bed lately-- not a good combination for sleep, of course. You throw one arm over your ear, the one that is not pressed firmly against the pillow, in hopes to remain in your dreamlike state. Alas, your fleshy barrier doesn't quite block out the sounds and you hear a muffled, "Mama, will you cuddle me?" How can you resist such a request? You roll back to the striped-clad body and tuck his two-year-old softness against your warm chest and abdomen. Good morning.

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Pink- butterfly- pajama- clad legs dance around the breakfast table where half-eaten pancakes sit, forlorn in a puddle of syrup. Up goes one leg, in a half skipping movement, hop on the other foot. Ahhh, this looks like the well known, practiced for ages, pee-pee dance.

Do you need to use the bathroom?

Nope, I'm just dancing to music in my head.

Heartbreaking

Of course this headline on Yahoo news caught my eye today, California teen gives birth in shower, walks to hospital, and I had to click on the article.

This story is heartbreaking on so many fronts:

• She had the baby alone (in a shower and clearly, with no pain management!).
• Mama is 17 and a sophomore in high school.
• She went through her entire pregnancy without her own mom knowing.
• She kept the pregnancy a secret because she feared she would be kicked out of her house.
• And finally "[She] did not call 911 because the home phone was disconnected, and she did not want to wake the neighbors because it was so early. Instead, she wrapped the baby, got dressed and went to the hospital on foot."

We're not talking of this happening in a developing nation. No, this was in California, people! Imagine walking down the street in order to get to a hospital , carrying your newborn, with the placenta still inside and the umbilical cord still attached?!!!

Why didn't people realize she was pregnant? Did she get any prenatal care? Where is the father in this picture? Ahh, I wish her and her son well, and I am glad that both are OK physically. I hope she can continue her education, that her son will be well cared for, and that her family finds some financial stability.

Here's to all the young girls who suffer pregnancy in silence and fear, without support and perhaps, care. Really, who honestly thinks that girls/women are the weaker gender?! Please...