My soft, soft boy

When the world offers nothing but hardness

This is a poem I wrote recently. It’s unedited. I want to play with it a little more but I thought I’d share it with you as a work-in-progress for a change.

My youngest (4) is described as a girl constantly because he is a fan of unicorns and sparkle. And he has an older sister so wears all her clothes. My older children smile now when it happens and roll their eyes. At the weekend my 8yo muttered, “why do people always assume he is a girl just because he’s wearing pink, he’s just a kid who likes colours.” Yep. And yet I fear he may now be on borrowed time. My eldest son was similar pre-school. Then a boy teased him in a play-centre for wearing red sparkly tights (he ADORED these tights, would not take them off, I’ll admit I even tried to discourage them because I worried it might happen). He still talks about it now but with the added addition of experience. He now laughs about it because can see (we have spoken about) that this had nothing to do with him and everything to do with them.

It’s not just about the clothes they wear though, I am also keenly aware of how hardness creeps in to the ways we talk about boys. Our beautiful, caring, kind little humans. How, as well as “strong girls,” we need to be raising and celebrating “gentle boys.” My eldest (10yo) still loves to be under a blanket snuggling his sleep toy. It might not seem much but it’s something. As I watch him grow I long for him to be allowed to be his full self. I long for him to be allowed to know softness.

Have a good week,

Hels (Nelly) x

Let him know softness. Warmth, closeness, I mean. Let him long for lazy Sundays. Let him know fleecy blankets and special cushions, whipped pink frosting on cupcakes and crying at the end of a great book. Let him love the smell of clean washing and the feel of slipper socks. 

As well as cricket bats and computer games, let him love cartwheels on the grass and collecting conkers to make art. Let him cradle a doll under his arm and guard the path to protect a ladybird. Let him hold a hand and say no to the joke that might lead to harm. When the world offers him the darks of grey and blue let him know that he can drench himself in pinks and lilacs and yellows.

Let him know how it feels to be greeted by friends with a long-held hug and be texted the words, “are you alright today?” and be able to reply, “actually, I’m not,” and that be ok. Let him receive cards in the post containing poetry and let him feel goosebumps from hitting the top note in the choir and let him shimmy his beautiful body across the dance floor when the DJ is playing a love song, let him enjoy love songs, love stories, let him lose himself in love.

Let him know how to wrap presents with care and ask for flowers by name and comment out-loud on the style of a friend’s hair. Let him know the quiet, the curve of his own arms, let him find time to tend to his own sun-freckled skin, know how to run a great bubble bath, let him feel that bath bombs and snuggles in bed and jammies with hearts on are for him.

Let him feel able to whisper, tip-toe sometimes, lightly dab away the tears that arise when his heart is touched by a beautiful piece of art. Let him know what it feels like to tend to his own heart. Let him remember that he was made from stardust. Let someone offer him a ride home.