Sunday, November 02, 2003

By L. Wayne Moss and Eve Shavatt

She said ...

Parenting probably is tougher with boys than girls, at least while they're young. After all, little boys are just tiny versions of the men who drive us crazy. They're sloppy and unruly, and they don't listen to us. They leave handprints on the walls and frogs in the sink.

	Men and women through the ages, Have had opposing points of view. HE said this...SHE said that, Which one works for YOU? He Said-She Said, a male-vs.-female point of view, appears weekly in Washington Sunday.

I recently spent the day with my nieces Jewel and Blaire and it confirmed what I thought. They're sweet and thoughtful, and they can stay clean for more than five minutes. They answer when you ask them a question and they eat with utensils. They're dainty and fashionable and they smell good.

A couple I know experienced life with boys. When Joe first met Wendy, she wasn't sure she wanted kids. That soon became moot when Joey came along. Wendy realized she couldn't have just an only child, so a few years later there was Jake. The boys were great, but at times she felt a little outnumbered. A couple of years later she thought, "Hey, let's try for a girl." Then Josh was born. Another boy, but what a cutie, with curly blond locks and blue eyes. Sometimes people would say, "Oh, what a beautiful little girl." Wendy let his hair grow long. Joe took him for a buzz cut.

Next thing you know, Baby No. 4 was on the way. Wendy calls the baby Jamie. But Jamie doesn't like that name. He prefers to be called James.

When James was born, Joe turned to Wendy and said, "Let's get you a female dog."

Now the kids are 14, 11, 9 and 7, and Wendy is reconciled to a life dominated by men. She's used to dinnertime conversation revolving around football and soccer. She longs for something soft and pink and frilly while she washes yards of inside-out clothes covered in mud. She's adjusted to shoe marks four feet up the wall, cookies in the closet, underpants in the couch, a toilet seat that's never down, an iguana in the tub, fishing lures in the carpet and sticky little boy hugs.

Like most women, Wendy takes a hands-on approach with her kids. She buttons their collars and puts their hats on their heads. The day Joey completed a 45-yard run and limped off the football field, Wendy was there. She called Joe. "Any blood or broken bones?" he asked in his usual response. "Then don't worry about it. It's all part of growing up."

When Jamie and a neighbor kid tied a rope from a corner of the garage and strung it over to the fence, they did it to try sliding from the roof to the ground. Joe looked at it and thought, "Hey, some engineering went in to that design." He was wishing he was small enough to try it. Wendy felt the blood leave her face as she contemplated Jamie hurling through the air.

Why are boys such daredevils? Why can't they be happy having a tea party? I don't know. But I do know Joe was horrified to catch Wendy on the Internet looking at a Russian adoption Web page for little girls. Nice to know something scares him.

Eve Shavatt can be reached at dshavatt@verizon.net. Her sister Donna is taking a leave from writing but will continue to contribute to the column.

He said ...

What is a parent supposed to do? A few years ago, I heard a story about a mother and father who were trying to sell their newborn baby for money to buy crack cocaine. They'd already rejected an offer of $8,000 and were holding out for 10 grand, which I guess is the going rate for a black-market baby. But business is business, and they finally accepted a bid of $9,000 from an off-duty policewoman, who promptly locked up these idiots. If nothing else, this story adds an interesting new definition to the phrase "family values."

What is a child worth? According to the above estimates, about $1,000 a pound, which puts their value at somewhere between pure silver and prime rib. So, at 16 years of age, my daughter Eponine is worth about $120,000. But you'd never guess that just by looking at her. You'd think she looks like she belongs to some poor working stiff who spends every dime he has just to feed and clothe her -- and you'd be right.

How do you raise children?

You pick them up, hold them cheek to cheek, ride them on your shoulders, then lift them over your head. You throw them in the air. OK, I know this is a cheap and gratuitous analogy, but I really like it. As a father, my job is to have fun with my girls, to teach them how to laugh, enjoy life and appreciate the good times. It is the mother's job to keep them clean, safe and responsible. She has them, I raise them. That's the deal.

Are kids a good investment?

No. They say that by the time your child is 18, you've already spent more than $100,000 on them. Add to that all the blueberry pancakes, Band-Aids, Reeboks, Disney movies, and hot chocolate with tiny marshmallows inside a cracked mug that says "I love my dad." And then there's the factor of time -- time you spend teaching her how to climb trees and catch frogs, and time you invest showing her which books to read and the proper way to blow up an anthill -- time you could have been using to make more money and increase your revenue. After all, land is a much better investment than kids. It doesn't eat the last slice of pizza, or come home with boys' names written on its hand, or point out your grammatical mistakes or demand late-night talks about the meaning of life.

What is the meaning of life? I knew you'd ask.

Well, it's not land or money or crack cocaine or even hot chocolate. I think the meaning of life is hidden deep inside the unselfish hearts of little human beings with independent minds, sharp tongues and good spirits.

I can't throw Eponine in the air anymore. And because of depreciation, I can't sell her for what I've got invested in her. I'd have to settle for a dime on the dollar. That's bad business. So I guess I'll keep her, and keep struggling to raise her.

Because no matter what she's worth on the open market, she is, in fact, the most precious thing this man will ever have.

L. Wayne Moss can be reached at wmoss@mail.com.

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