The puppet show

Boys and girls play differently--waaaaay differently.

I don't say that as a child behavior specialist, a teacher, or any other kind of professional in the child development world. I say it as a girl who grew up with three brothers, in a neighborhood full of boys, and now, as a mother of a son.

They play differently.

I remember being baffled by this as a little girl. I'd line up my stuffed animals for long talks or an impromptu reading session (I wasn't a tea party kind of girl), but before we could really get started, my brothers would charge in and attack them. They'd leave my room a mess, me in tears, my animals askew, swaggering out full of bravado, proud of themselves for proving their worth and ridding the world of dangerous enemies (like my stuffed elephant).
 
I thought I'd left that world behind when I grew up, but as I mentioned before, I have a son now. And he is once again proving my theory correct.

Case in point: A puppet show.

I loved puppet shows as a little girl--it was a way to bring my animals, and my stories, to life. It allowed me to sort out my world creatively, to weave stories and morals together through dramatic play, to become heroine and tragic figures alike, depending on my imagination.

Well, Mark had a similar opportunity this weekend, but his puppet show went a little differently. His show starred a lion, a zebra and a Nerf gun, and only one of those puppets came out alive.

"Mom, watch my show!" Mark cried, right before he filled the zebra up with Nerf darts. "It's about a zebra and a lion!"

I was filled with inappropriate giggles and horror simultaneously. Mark brought the zebra back to life, and it walked side by side with the lion for a moment, conversing happily. Until the lion did what lions do, and ate the zebra. I could hear Mark laughing wickedly behind the curtains.

I sighed. Boys play differently, I reminded myself. It wasn't right or wrong, just...different.
 
Unless, of course, you're a zebra puppet. In which case...sorry, things just aren't gonna end well for you in this show.

But there's till hope, if a little girl happens by. Then, and only then, your narrative may turn from innocent, half-eaten victim to honored tea party guest. But until then, the poor zebra is destined to die repeatedly, in various tortured ways, with only momentary respites, as the puppeteer occasionally turned the Nerf gun away from the zebra, using it on the audience instead.

Did I mention boys and girls play differently?