That's what I feel, too

I grew up with three brothers, and realized very early that there were distinct differences in the way males and females communicate. (Having a son reiterated this fact.)

I learned to listen to the meaning of words, and not just the words themselves. I grew to appreciate that phrases like "You idiot," when said with the right tone, were actually warm, fuzzy compliments and not insults. (I also learned that insults, if witty enough, were not only permitted, but downright appreciated, in my family. But hey, that's another story.)

However, this past weekend, I got another reminder of just how huge those male/female communication differences are.

Mark and I attended a diabetes lecture. Ten minutes into the talk, the moderator broke us up into smaller groups--moms in one, dads in another, and kids in a third group. He loaded us up with some heavy-duty questions and sent the groups off to discuss them.

When the groups returned, the moderator asked, "How did it go?" He chose volunteers to report back.

The first volunteer was a woman. She wiped her eye, thought reflectively about our very emotional discussion, and said, "Wow, it was therapeutic! I feel a lot better now, but I'm sad that the time went so quickly." The women all around her nodded their heads and wiped their eyes in agreement.

Next, the moderator called on a man. The man stood up and said, with a sigh, "That was the longest half-hour of my life." All the men around him nodded in agreement. I think they'd rather have visited the dentist instead.

Mark squirmed in his seat, bored out of his mind. I think he really identified with the men's group; all this talk was slowly driving him mad.

The moderator then called on the kids. "Come on," he said, "I want to hear what you talked about. I want to know how you're feeling."

I nudged Mark in the ribs. "Yeah, Mark," I whispered. "What are you feeling?"

Mark immediately answered, "I feel hungry!" He even rubbed his belly and pointed to his open mouth to prove it.

And that's when I realized the moderator was in for a long morning, at least with half the crowd.

I also realized that when I talk to Mark, I need brevity. Say exactly what I mean--no subtleties. Say it in half the words I think I need. Otherwise, he's gonna tune me out just like all the men did to that well-meaning, good-intentioned moderator.

And most importantly, I realized I need to talk to Mark about stuff only when his stomach is full. Because apparently, there's a direct link from his stomach to his head, and if either one is empty, all communication immediately and irretrievably breaks down.

The trouble with communication...

...is that it takes two participants to be successful. In my house, conversations are completely one-sided. I talk and think we're conversing, and Mark ignores me until my voice rises and he senses impending danger. (He's got a keen sense of self-preservation, that kid.)

He has perfected the art of looking like he's taking in what I am saying. He nods at appropriate intervals and adds, "OK," during pauses in the conversation. But I've discovered he's not actually listening at all--he just hears "Wah wah wah wah," like I'm a teacher speaking and he's Charlie Brown.

Yesterday, he left an empty cat food can on the counter. I asked him three times to throw it in the recycling bin, and he nodded each time and said, "OK." And then ignored me completely.

By the fourth time, I was about to lose it. My voice grew louder and angrier, and he counteracted my tone with a snotty one of his own.

"OK, OK," he said, holding his hands up defensively. "You can stop yelling."

"I can't!" I yelled. "I've already asked numerous times. You are not listening!"

He stopped short, and looked me in the eye. "So you're saying I'm stupid?" he asked.

Now it was my turn to be stunned. I sighed and said, "I didn't say you were stupid. I said you don't listen."

"So basically, you're calling me stupid. Thanks a lot." He tossed the can outside angrily, and tried to push past me to stomp away.

I stopped him, and repeated, "I never said you were stupid. I said you don't listen, and this entire conversation confirms that."

"Oooooh!" he said, finally getting it. "OK. I just thought you were being really mean." Then he walked away, happy once again.

I shook my head at that crazy kid. Then I gritted my teeth and prepared myself to tell him (at least five times) it was time for bed.

Girls just don't understand

Mark spent spring break at a local day camp, doing what he loves best -- playing sports and getting filthy. He was recounting his adventures one day, and inadvertently gave me a lesson on the different communication styles of males and females. That's right, I got schooled in boy talk.

"My friends and I were playing football, and --" he started, but I interrupted him.

"Friends from school?" I asked.

"No, my new friends," he answered.

"What are their names?" I asked. (We've had many failed lessons about proper introductions. I was hoping maybe a lesson had stuck.)

But Mark just shrugged.

"Did you ask any of their names?" I asked, cringing inside. When little girls play together, they immediately give their names, plus the names of their parents, siblings', best friends, pets, neighbors, and favorite toys all in the first two minutes. You also learn their age, favorite color, food, book, toy, doll, and school, plus their grade, teacher, and classmates' names. I continually forget boys are not like girls.

Mark shook his head. "I forgot to ask their names," he said.

"Well, how do you get their attention then, if you don't know their names?" I persisted.

Mark just looked at me, raised his hands up as if to catch a football, and in his slowest, you-are-so-dim voice, said, "Hey, over here, pass it to me!" He simulated a catch, then a throw to another imaginary kid, and smiled smugly at me.

And so I drove on, trying not to laugh out loud. I also made a mental note not to underestimate boy communication any more. Because maybe he didn't get all the fine details (like names), but he had a blast anyway.