This boy business was just not on my radar screen when I dreamily envisioned motherhood. Me, the parent of a penis-endowed child? Just as I was certain my training as a psychologist would ensure I was the ideal loving, nurturing mom, always ready with the right words to soothe, I trusted I would only have daughters. That was all I knew, as I had grown up in a family well-stocked with four girls.  The fantasy materialized, I exhaled with deep relief when I had two daughters. My completed family seemed protected from those wild, foreign creatures: boys.

My certainty about this imagined immunity against boys flew out the window nearly as fast as my idea of being a model mother, never angry. Girls grow up, and given the correct wiring, move past the “boys have cooties” stage to admire these exotic beings. Despite a certain connubial awareness of the grown-up version of the species, it was folly to think boys would not impact our lives.  Boys would be as much a part of raising girls as Barbie dolls—the influence of each equally scary. I could no more buffer my daughters from the pull and toll of the opposite sex than steer them clear of the sparkly pink and purple aisles in the toy store.  

Abby, at fourteen, showed a budding interest in boys, scarily keeping pace with her blossoming body.  At this tender age, what girl is exempt from tears over unrequited love? The storm of hormones that caused her dad to roll his eyes and mutter “I’m sure glad I’m not a single parent” kept the tear ducts stoked. Calling from the school spring dance one Friday evening, she breathlessly shared her latest “crush” with me.  A sweet boy had “asked her out”.  She was simply thrilled—he was “hot”  (i.e. “cute” in the terms of my youth), smart, and sought-after, the rare middle school boy who towers over the girls. Other girls fled to the hall outside the school cafeteria, wailing at top volume, at the news. Abby basked in amazement—this charming boy had picked her.  One evening, I dropped her at a poetry reading at the local bookstore, where he was to read his work.  What a wonder to see his face light up as my daughter entered the room! Chills ran down my spine, and I wasn’t even the one with the crush. The fact that my daughter had attracted a respectable member of the opposite sex was a relief to me as a parent, I had to admit, given the dread with which I eyed some of the pierced, sagging, spiked offerings wandering the middle school halls.

“Going out” in the eighth grade involves little: a group movie date, holding hands in the hall, some long phone conversations.  The average duration is slightly more than that—and this love affair lasted only three weeks—record-setting by middle school standards.  Abby melted into tears when I picked her up one day, handing over “the note.” He had simply walked up to her, staring at the linoleum, and handed her the intricately folded paper. She knew instantly what it contained: he only liked her as a friend.  As she cried in waves through that evening, the first broken heart of her young life provoked my tears as well.  What mother does not hurt when her child is in pain?

I remember my mother’s deep sympathy when, as a teen, my heart was broken for the first time.  I lay on my bed, pitifully wracked with sobs, because a fourteen year old neighbor boy no longer “liked” me.  Usually a veritable tornado of busyness, my mom stopped canning tomatoes that summer’s day to sit on my bed as I cried, stroking my back and murmuring reassuring mother words.  Certainly, she convinced me, others would find me lovable. What I thought was a guaranteed catastrophe by virtue of this young punk’s rejection--being an old maid-- would be diverted.  Her ability that day to take me seriously in my  puppy love grief instilled in me the importance of the impossible mission of trying to protect my own daughters from broken hearts.  There was no question that I would choose to accept it.

As a high school student, I raced into the night on the back of my boyfriend’s motorcycle—and my mother trusted that it would be all right. She must not share the way anxieties race around in my mind, like so many hamsters. She even donned the helmet and took a sample ride herself, as my sisters and I stood gap-mouthed. Her faith trickled down into my danger-wary brain, even through an era of stranger abductions and ever-mutating communicable diseases.  I’ve held my daughters in my lap, stroking their hair in comfort, through a parade of questionable characters matched only by clever script writers. A gay boyfriend who used my daughter as a decoy; a boyfriend who believed that affection beyond hand-holding is sin itself, each driving doubt into my daughter’s psyche about her female allure. A boyfriend with a terminal disease. Admiring but scary boys who pursued with stalker-like persistence, driving by or calling at all hours. Our family joke about dad cleaning his shotgun when the date rang the doorbell seemed less funny after that.

At dinner that same spring evening that Abby’s still-baby heart was stomped, my younger daughter, Audrey, related her story of note from fourth grade that day.  She also had a sweet boy in her life, one of her best friends.  She was quick to vehemently correct anyone who called Andy her “boyfriend”—he was her friend who happened to be a boy! They only liked playing forts and pirates together—no mushy stuff! It was candy day; the teacher had permitted them to bring a treat from home to enjoy during reading time.  Audrey had forgotten.  She rooted through her back pack and lunch bag, and found a crushed and worn candy bar, as old as Halloween.  She placed it on her desk, in anticipation of reading time.  Andy eyed it, then asked if she wanted to trade for one of his. Out of his bag, he produced two shiny new candy bars.  Eagerly, of course, Audrey accepted this dubious trade.  She knows a good deal when she sees one.  Andy picked up the rumpled candy bar and handed her a fresh one.  He then unceremoniously stood up, walked to the trash can, and pitched the stale candy in.  He returned to his seat, without another word.

In contrast to the pack of wolves my daughters have attracted, respectful, charming young men like Andy have just as often graced our home, glowing like lightning bugs when the girl in question descends the stairs as they wait at the door. The devotion of such awkward man-children is sweet balm for my girls, and their parents. Maybe we need not send our daughters off to a nunnery in a panic after all.

I am glad I am not immune from the havoc of boys in my daughters’ lives.  As parents, we certainly wish, and sometimes even expect, that we can protect our children from every disappointment and hurt.  We cannot.  Nor should we.  Not only do our children grow when we support them through adversity, acknowledging their feelings and offering comfort, but so do we. 

Ann L. Dunnewold, Ph.D., is a licensed psychologist in independent practice in Dallas, specializing in women's mental health issues. She helps women sort out the guilt and anxiety about the unrealistic demands of motherhood on a daily basis. In addition to Even June Cleaver Would Forget the Juice Box: Cut Yourself Some Slack (and Still Raise Great Kids) in the Age of Extreme Parenting, she has authored three books on postpartum mental health issues and is a national media expert on postpartum depression and anxiety. Ann is also mother of two nearly-grown daughters, and has survived the endless push to perfection in parenting, from mother-baby exercise to SAT prep classes. She soon will embark on a new adventure: as a mother-in-law to a sweet young man.