“Think of me as a four-year-old that shaves.”
Why boys never really do quite grow up . . . and why you wouldn’t want them to.
“WHY DON’T YOU GROW UP?”
“Yeah, just grow up!”
We seventh-grade boys stood in a tight huddle as the seventh-grade girls, hands on hips, defiantly hurled words at us. Evidently they thought we were acting stupid . . . when, really, all we were acting was like ourselves.
From the beginning of life, boys are . . . well, boys.
They make noises like Vroom! and Urrrch! And Bbbppsssttt! when they drive toy trucks and fire engines. They like to crash their vehicles, often at a top speed.
They whistle and spit.
They tease girls when they like them.
They burp at the dinner table . . . just for fun. We won’t mention the other bodily noises that they work hard to make.
They face each other off in kindergarten with conversations like:
“My dad is bigger than anybody in the world.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, my dad is bigger than your dad.”
“You think so, huh? Well, my dad . . . ”
They brag about their conquests . . . and who has a bigger appendage when they’re in the shower at school.
And what happens when these little boys grow up?
The swagger and the risking spirit remain. Here’s a case in point: the man who drives a pickup with this message in bold black type across his back window: COPS LIE.
As a friend of mine says, “Testosterone doesn’t change when little boys grow up . . . because they never really grow up.”
Within every man is still the little boy he once was.
WITHIN EVERY MAN IS STILL THE LITTLE BOY HE ONCE WAS.
YOUR BIG, LITTLE BOY
My mom hated doing my laundry, and who could blame her? One time she reached into my pants pocket and got bit.
“Keevvviin!” she screamed. “Get down here right now!”
From the way she yelled, I assumed somebody died. So I came running. “Yeah, Mom, what is it?”
“What is in your pocket?”
I shrugged and fished in my jeans. I pulled out a crayfish, a cricket, two salamanders, and a grasshopper. “Bait,” I said proudly. “I went fishing today, remember?”
My mom probably wanted to strangle me, but she was a very patient woman. (I would prove to be the child who tested her patience the most.) She said, “Fine, but next time you go fishing, could you please remove all bugs, insects, and anything that’s slimy and alive from your jeans before you put them in the wash for me to find?”
Then I went through my Milk-Bone stage. It takes a boy who watches his dog chewing on a Milk-Bone to think, I wonder what that tastes like? Worse, I found out I really liked the taste. Even more, I craved the attention eating the things brought me, and I took pride in doing goofy things.
My mom never got used to this trick, but other people have. One Christmas, a woman who heard me talk on the radio sent me a box of frosted Milk-Bone dog biscuits. If they had invented those when I was a kid, I never would have eaten my dinner!
It wasn’t long until my 18-month-old son paid me back. I was in my office many years ago when I got a frantic call from Sande. She was crying—in near hysterics—and I immediately felt my heart start to race. I was positive one of my kids was dead or at least critically injured.
“Honey, what’s the matter?”
“It’s Kevin!”
Oh no! I thought. Aloud I asked, “Did he fall into the pool?”
“No,” Sande said, “it’s his pecker.”
“His pecker?”
“Yeah, it’s purple!”
“Purple? What happened? Did somebody hit him?”
“No, he colored it with a magic marker.”
I burst out laughing. Little Kevin had always shown a predisposition toward art (art turned out to be his major later in college), but this creative endeavor really beat them all.
“What are you laughing about?” Sande asked, horrified.
“Little boys do things like that,” I replied. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard!”
Because all of us men were once boys, we tend to have a good laugh rather than a good cry when it comes to our own boys’ childhood pranks.
Just because your husband has turned 30 or 50 doesn’t mean he has lost his affinity for being a boy and doing goofy things. We might have learned to regulate it a little better, but many of us still surprise our wives with the seemingly senseless things we do. If you gave me a Milk-Bone dog biscuit today and I was in the right mood, I’d probably eat it (only Milk-Bone, by the way; no other brand will do!).
BOYS WILL BE BOYS
Boys never really do grow up.
It’s why as soon as your husband’s buddy gets a new two-seater, they peel out of your driveway to give it a spin around the block . . . and show up grinning three hours later when your pot roast is crispy.
It’s why he can give you the grunt after work but then spend the next hour discussing with a buddy on the phone how to achieve all the levels in the Call of Duty 2 computer game. It’s why he doesn’t see the broken faucet that needs to be fixed but knows the instant a new DVD is released at Best Buy.
It’s why he gets the urge to put up a new fence in your backyard by himself when he sees a neighbor doing one.
Every man feels keenly within his soul “the constant search to be number one” that he is born with.
EVERY MAN FEELS KEENLY WITHIN HIS SOUL
“THE CONSTANT SEARCH TO BE NUMBER ONE.”
If you doubt this, listen to the difference between the way little boys talk, when they are carrying on a conversation among just boys, and the way little girls talk when they are carrying on a conversation among just girls.
Boys:
“Look what I can do!”
“All right! But I can swing higher.”
“But I can hang upside down on the monkey bars.”
“I can do that too. Race ya!”
Girls:
“Should we play house today? Or school?”
“Oh, why don’t we play house?”
The girls look around the group, eyeing each girl in turn.
“Is that okay with you, Rachel?”
Rachel nods. “Sure, let’s play!”
“How about you, Amy?”
Look carefully at each of the conversations. Are there any words that you see used repeatedly in the boys’ conversation? What about in the girls’ conversation?
Because of their drive to be number one—meaning everything else is secondary—little boys tend to use I. “Look what I can do!” Note also the inherent challenge: “Race ya.” Boys are primed for independence, and that independent edge only grows stronger as they grow older.
BOYS TEND TO USE I. GIRLS TEND TO USE WE OR YOU.
Little girls, who are typically more relational in nature, tend to use we or you. They decide things by committee, getting everyone in on the decision and making sure everyone is okay with the next action before they move ahead: “Is that okay with you, Rachel?” and “How about you, Amy?”
It’s no wonder that in marriage, it’s important to you, as a woman, to get your guy’s opinion of things that are important to you. But what you need to realize is that not everything that’s important to you is important to him. Sometimes we men may not have an opinion because what you’re asking about doesn’t register high on our scale (more on this in chapter 3). Other times, our thoughts may be solidly mired in the muck of our own swamp, and we’re feeling up to our neck in alligators. We may be worried that if we bail on a certain project at work, we may lose that job. And if we lose that job, what will happen to the house payment? the car payment? So your concerns—though important to men—may not rate as high as that drive to be number one.
Does it mean we men don’t care? No, it’s just that in the inner drive to be number one, all other things pale. That’s why we may not remember, necessarily, something that you consider important.
It’s because we have a strong drive to compete, and to every man, it’s a dog-eat-dog world.
COMPETITION—THE NAME OF THE GAME
To say my wife, Sande, and I think completely differently about driving is an understatement.
She doesn’t know to go to the outside lane and zoom around when traffic slows to a crawl in her lane. Instead she waits patiently in her lane to get to wherever she wants to go.
Then there’s me. If there’s even half-a-car-length gap in traffic in my lane, I’m zooming to the other lane to see how far ahead I can get. I even keep track of the guy in the blue pickup in the far lane, to see if I can get one up on him. And I can spot a handicapped license plate on a four-cylinder car a stoplight away.
Once when Sande picked me up from work so we could go out for dinner, she drove in the right lane and slowly pulled up to a stoplight behind a long array of vehicles, including a dump truck and a bus.
I took a quick look around. The middle lane had only two cars—both fast-accelerating ones. The outside lane had three minivans in it, so would probably be slower moving. The middle lane was definitely the one to be in.
“Uh, Sande, you might want to move into the middle lane.”
“I’m very happy where I am,” she said.
And she proceeded to stay there . . . in the slowest lane possible.
It was more than my competitive male ego could take. “You’ll never win the race in this lane!” I exclaimed.
She gave me the look. The look all wives give their husbands from time to time. Then the classic line came next: “What are you talking about?”
It all comes down to the fact that boys are born competitive. They’re determined to go after what they want. To duke it out when they need to.
If you doubt this for one minute and think I’m gender stereotyping, just watch two men play tennis, and then watch two women play tennis (unless, of course, the women are engaged in an Olympic sport). You’ll quickly see the difference. Built within every man is the need to compete.
BUILT WITHIN EVERY MAN IS THE NEED TO COMPETE.
But girls? They are so different. In my career as an educator, I coached girls’ basketball. I learned quickly that you don’t yell at girls. You don’t even raise your voice, or you might start a flow of tears.
One day a girl was wincing and crying and carrying on so much that I thought she had broken her wrist or her arm. When I raced over there, I heard through her tears, “Coach, I broke a nail.”
Another time the game had already started, but only four of my players were out on the court. “Where’s Brittany?” I ask, dumbfounded.
“She’s in the shower, crying,” one of the girls said.
While girls show their delicate emotions and frequently huddle in groups on the playground and discuss who’s most popular and similar relational topics, the boys argue over who won the last competition. It doesn’t matter whether they’re playing a game of Monopoly, tossing around a basketball, or trying to stomp on and kill the highest number of ants. They usually want to be the best.
When boys grow up, they compare salaries and the size of their offices.
That’s why it is particularly hard on a man when he feels inadequate in the area of competition. When he’s lost in a midlife crisis or feels worthless because he can’t hold down a steady job. When he feels his role in the home isn’t really important (more on this in chapter 6). When he feels you could do just as well without him.
WHAT A MAN WILL NEVER HEAR OUT OF A WOMAN’S MOUTH BUT WOULD LIKE TO:
• “Why would I need more shoes?”
• “Hey, honey, I called the cable company today and ordered another outlet for our bedroom. I also ordered the NFL package and the hockey package. I hope you don’t mind. That way you can watch as much sports as you want to in comfort.”
• “I love it when you spend time with the guys. It makes me happy to see you happy and relaxed.”
• “That new lawn tractor you bought is so cool. It’s the biggest on the block!”
WHAT A WOMAN WILL NEVER HEAR OUT OF A MAN’S MOUTH BUT WOULD LIKE TO:
• “I’ve had enough sex for this month. Can we just cuddle and watch a romantic comedy tonight?”
• “I know this is a tough question, dear, but I want to ask anyway. What can I do to encourage your mom to stay longer than the six weeks she’s already planning on?”
• “You just stay in bed and get your rest. I’d be happy to get up and take care of the baby.”
• “Of course I know our anniversary is Super Bowl night. But I’d never dream of watching football with the guys on that night. You are first in my heart.”
IT’S NOT JUST THE THING, BUT THE SIZE OF THE THING THAT COUNTS
To a man, it’s not the thing that counts, but the size of the thing. It’s why your guy gets an urge to buy a speedboat when his neighbor buys a rowboat. Or why he has to sign up to work out five nights a week at the gym when a coworker says he’s going on Mondays and Fridays to tone up his abs.
Although you might roll your eyes at such bluster and swagger, it’s all a part of that male competitive spirit. And it comes out in everything they do, even when they’re supposed to be at play.
Ken, Jim, and Jason were “bonding over the barbecue” (as their wives liked to call it) one summer day and got a brainstorm: why not take one weekend in the early fall to go fishing?
Each made a note about the weekend on his BlackBerry, then promptly moved on to other topics.
The fall day before they left, they pulled together the rest of their plans as their wives looked on, amused at menus like
Breakfast: Steak
Lunch: Chicken
Dinner: Fish (They were evidently counting on catching some since nobody picked up any at the grocery store.)
There were no fruits, vegetables, or anything else from any other food group in sight. The men packed paper plates, but no knives, forks, spoons, or cups. There was no toilet paper, even though they would spend their time in the deep woods and on the river. The women all secretly wondered how their guys would manage over the weekend.
Two and a half days later, the guys returned home. They were muddy, disheveled, and smelling like fish. But all were beaming like little boys with their prize catches.
Ken had made a particularly big catch—a 50-inch muskie. Although the men had fried up their other catches, Ken had brought his muskie home wrapped in a plastic garbage bag loaded with ice to share with his wife, Andrea. And with little boy excitement, he displayed his catch before her wide eyes (and assaulted nostrils).
Three weeks later, Ken came home from work with a large box.
“Just look!” he told Andrea.
There in the box was the muskie head, mounted on a memorial plaque, with the lure still dangling in its mouth.
“Isn’t this awesome?” Ken said. “I can’t wait to hang it up.”
Ladies, guess where he wanted to hang it? In their bedroom, above the bed!
Andrea drew the line there in her mind. She couldn’t imagine waking up every morning with that muskie staring at her. She had to stifle her urge to say, “Uh, what about the garage?” because she didn’t want to deflate Ken’s little-boy ego.
Instead, she wisely said, “You know, I’ve been thinking that we should turn the unfinished basement into a hang-out room for you and the guys. Would you be open to that? That would be a great place to hang that muskie—then you and the guys could remember your good time fishing together!”
Now that’s a smart woman. Andrea understood how important not only the catch was to her big “little boy,” but the size of the catch. Ken had competed in the fishing category with the other guys and won the biggest prize. Andrea was willing to make some adjustments that proved to him that what was important to him was also important to her. And she carefully sidestepped the issue of having that fish hanging over their bed.
By her quick thinking, she gave her big boy the stroke he needed. All because she understood that to a man, bigger is better.
Marriage is a school where we learn to be flexible, to live in harmony with each other, to walk together as one, to strengthen and complement each other.
Seasons of a Marriage
THE PRINCESS AND THE CONQUEROR SYNDROME
Most little girls long to be a princess. They dream of the arrival of a prince who will sweep them off their feet and away to a dreamy castle. They will live in perfect eHarmony in the land far, far away for the rest of their lives.
But what they often get is the “conqueror” treatment: “I am master of my destiny and yours, too, and I will rule over you.” It’s also known as the “cave man treatment”—“you woman, I man, you mine. You come to cave now!”
THE CONQUEROR
Every woman who has a guy in her life has no doubt lived through this scenario:
Man is driving the vehicle.
Woman is trying to sit patiently in the front passenger seat.
But as they circle the same block for the fourth time, woman gets itchy and speaks up. “Honey, could we be lost?”
“Oh, no,” man says confidently. “It’s just around this corner.”
Ten minutes later they are still driving around.
“Honey, maybe we could ask for directions,” woman suggests.
“No!” man responds vehemently. “I can figure it out myself. We’re almost there.”
Note the tone of the man’s response. Why is he so annoyed?
To you it makes absolute sense to ask for directions when you’re lost. After all, why spend all that gas and time driving in circles?
But look at it from a man’s perspective. He is primed, as a little boy, to be a conqueror. That’s why he doesn’t appreciate even the suggestion of asking for directions.
In his mind, what you’re saying is, “Uh, hubby dear, I think you’re totally, impossibly lost, and you just don’t want to admit it.”
Your guy doesn’t like feeling inept at anything because his inbuilt desire is to conquer every task, including ones he’s not very good at. He believes that he can get the job done. Figure it all out for himself, without any help (including yours), thank you.
It is important to how he feels about himself as a male that you allow him not only to compete but to conquer.
So the next time you’re in the passenger side and you’re driving in circles, ask yourself, Is it really so bad to let him try to be a conqueror? Even if it means driving in circles? or being a little late? As exasperating as it might be to you sometimes, try to take the long view. Give your husband permission to try . . . and to fail, if needed. You’ll get to your destination eventually, but you’ll both be in a better mood if you let him be the conqueror he’s designed to be.
Just remember: when you’re driving and he’s not in the car, you can stop a zillion times for directions with your girlfriends.
QUIZ
Why won’t a man stop for directions?
A. It’s beneath him.
B. He’s got to figure it out himself.
C. He knows where he’s going.
D. He doesn’t like to ask others for help.
E. Because he doesn’t have to go to the john yet.
F. He thinks, I can still pull this off.
For answers, see page #2 THING HE’LL NEVER TELL YOU.
Within every man is the need to conquer. That’s why getting in the fast lane of life is so important. It’s why having control of the television remote and being able to surf all the channels continually just to see what’s on is so important, even when the constant clicking and switching of plotlines and characters drives you crazy.
There’s another important side to the conquering man.
When he conquers, he conquers. In his mind, when he does the job, it’s a done deal. Consider the man and woman who had been married for three years and were struggling in their marriage.
“But honey,” the wife begged, “you haven’t told me you loved me for three years!”
The man’s response? Confusion flickered across his brow before he said plainly, “I told you I loved you when we got married . . . and that hasn’t changed!”
In his mind, when he went through the details of the wedding and brought his bride across the threshold, he had conquered the marriage job. Then he was on to the next thing he needed to conquer—getting a higher-paying job to take better care of his new family.
Don’t take your husband’s singular focus personally. It’s not meant to be directed against you (unless there’s a problem in your relationship that he’s trying to avoid). Instead, realize that your conqueror is conquering one task at a time. And at times he may need your gentle help to redirect or broaden that focus. (More on this in upcoming chapters.)
TO A MAN, LIFE IS ABOUT WINNING. TO A WOMAN, IT’S ABOUT THE JOURNEY ALONG THE WAY.
THE CRAVING TO WIN
Every man gets up in the morning thinking, I have to win. As soon as my feet hit the floor, it’s a race for who gets there first, works the hardest, is the best, the fastest. That’s the guy that’s going to win. And it’s going to be me.
Although he won yesterday, it doesn’t make any difference. He has to win again today, tomorrow, and each day after that.
You see, your man knows that, in today’s world, there is no place for the loser. Your guy fears the downsizing of his company. He wonders if he’ll be forced to relocate. If he stays with the same company, he’ll have to take a pay cut. And that can’t help but affect your life as a family.
Running constantly through his mind and his day is the thought that life is uncertain. Lives are changed with the stroke of a bureaucrat’s pen. Competition is severe. Every day he faces significant pressure to be the best. To seal the biggest deal. To dig the foundation of a house faster than anyone else.
He has to win. And that internal thinking hangs over everything he does.
“I WANT IT—NOW!”
I’ll admit it. Some days I have the maturity of a baby carrot. I crave immediate gratification. Kudos are important to me.
SOME DAYS I HAVE THE MATURITY OF A BABY CARROT.
A week ago, a woman walked up to me at a bookstore where I was signing copies of my books. After waiting for the crowd to clear, she said, “Dr. Leman, I’ve read all your books. But I want you to know that Sheet Music has changed my life, and my husband’s and my relationship. We’ve struggled with sex since the beginning of our marriage. I never felt good about myself or the way my body looked. For the first time in 17 years, we’re now enjoying sex. I wanted to thank you for that.”
“Wow,” I told her. “I feel like a seal that has just been thrown a big four-pound fish! Because this is why I do what I do!” That quiet kudo from a single woman meant the world to me as an author . . . and as a man.
Why were one woman’s words so important? Because they told me plainly that my work counted. And to a man, that means I count. To a man, his work is who he is.
Contrast that to a woman, whose work is a part of what she does. Remember in chapter 1 the two women who met over the punch bowl, and although both were working women, their occupations didn’t even come up in their conversation? Such realities reveal the priority of work in a woman’s life, even if she is a working woman—and even if she makes a large contribution financially to her family’s bottom dollar.
In the pie of a woman’s day, work is only one slice. It’s why she will make phone calls during her breaks and lunch hour to make doctors’ appointments and to check on ballet lessons, and she’ll surf the Net for red Mary Jane shoes just because her daughter has to have them.
Because of a man’s innate competitive drive, the urge to be conqueror, the craving to win, your man also craves immediate gratification, not down-the-road gratification. That means he wants to tell you immediately about a project he just nailed at work, and what his supervisor says about it.
Should a man always receive immediate gratification? No, because he’ll become just like the boy who gets everything—a hedonistic little sucker who’s impossible to live with.
But the wise woman realizes that a man is wired to want things now. And she will realize that a man who is constantly thwarted in his desires will begin to look for gratification elsewhere.
At times it may drive you a bit nutty to deal with your big little boy. The man who acts so competitive, like the conquering cave man, and who has to win. At those times, think of the situation with this little twist: If your guy wasn’t so competitive, would he have had the guts to go after you? If he wasn’t so conquering, would you have said yes to marrying him?
You see, you ought to be flattered. Your guy saw you as his prize to be won, and he went for it! He went for the gold—you!
YOU OUGHT TO BE FLATTERED. YOUR GUY SAW YOU AS
HIS PRIZE TO BE WON, AND HE WENT FOR IT! HE WENT
FOR THE GOLD—YOU!
THE OTHER WOMAN
Did you know that there is another woman in your husband’s life? And that she’s there to stay?
Often your husband’s behavior has everything to do with that other woman in his life . . . his mother.
I am convinced that I am the man I am because of who my mother was.
“You mean your father?” you might be saying.
“No,” I’d answer back. “Because of my mother.”
After spending years in the field of psychology and talking to and/or counseling thousands of men and women, I am convinced that it is the father who makes the biggest difference in a daughter’s life, and the mother who makes the biggest difference in a son’s life.1 These cross-sex relationships make indelible imprints.
I didn’t grow up in a perfect family. My dad was a drinker. I didn’t always have a good relationship with him. In fact, there were times in my life where I wished he was out of my life. But as I grew older, things changed for the better. I came to understand more about my dad and his own growing-up years that had impacted who he became as a man. His own Irish-Catholic family was so poor that he and his brothers used to say, “The first one dressed was the best dressed.” That was because whoever got dressed first got the pick of the clothes.
The other brothers got what was left over.
But I was always close to my mother when I was growing up. Even during the years when kids have a hard time talking to their parents, I could talk to my mother about anything—including girls and sex. My mother was always a straight talker. I knew she loved me. And, no matter what others said, she believed and expected the best of me.
Me. A kid who was dumber than mud in school. As a senior in high school, I took Consumer Mathematics—the class where you were presented with this kind of math problem: “Nancy went to the store with a dollar. She brought home four apples and 16 cents of change. How much did she spend at the store?” The class had a basic goal—to teach me how to shop at Safeway when I graduated!
Instead of a grade on my report card one year, there was a line there because I drove that teacher out of teaching. She left school in the middle of the term . . . because of me. I got thrown out of class. To this day I feel guilty for the way I treated that woman. I have tried on several occasions to find her to apologize face-to-face for being the kind of kid I was, but with no luck.
I received an incomplete even in that simple Consumer Mathematics class, flunked Latin three times, and never “got” chemistry at all.
Kevin Leman didn’t look like he was on his way to any success in life.
After I became an adult, my mother once told me that she often prayed, “God, please have Kevin bring home just one C on his report card to show me there is something there.” She was often at school more than I was—talking to teachers who were constantly saying, “If Kevin would only apply himself. . . .”
Love is optimistic. Love is tenacious. It keeps hoping.
—Stuart and Jill Briscoe, Living Love
My mother had a lot of stresses in her life. We were poor. For part of my growing-up years, we didn’t have a car. Instead my dad had a delivery van—the kind that had no seat except for the driver’s seat. I remember sitting on the dry-cleaning bags and helping him deliver them to houses. We had a modest home that had been given to my father by an aunt.
When my dad’s business floundered, Mom picked up the slack, going to work full-time as a registered nurse so the Leman family could have the basics. She worked hard—often all night. One of my most vivid memories is of watching her walk through two feet of snow at seven o’clock in the morning. She was coming down our street in Buffalo, New York, after working the night shift at the hospital.
Because both my parents worked, I was a latchkey kid before it came into vogue. Everybody else seemed to have Ward and June Cleaver as parents. When another boy taunted me out of pure meanness, telling me my mother didn’t care about me if she wasn’t home when I got there, I knocked him back on his tail.
I loved my mother. And she clearly loved me and my siblings. In the midst of all the hard work, she would take time to go fishing with me. When I was five or six years old, we would walk to the creek, half a mile from our house, and catch fish. She would celebrate each of my catches as if it were the most spectacular catch anyone had ever made! My little-boy heart would swell with pride. Perhaps my mother already knew then that I would struggle academically and that I would need this kind of a boost early in life to be a success at anything.
Throughout my childhood, my mother was my champion. Even when, in the world’s eyes, I was a failure . . . and continued to be so for years.
MY MOTHER WAS MY CHAMPION. EVEN WHEN, IN THE WORLD’S EYES, I WAS A FAILURE.
After being thrown out of college, I spent nine months looking for the right job. I preferred an executive-level position, but the only job offered to me was as a janitor. It was a low point in my life, where the only badge I wore was the insignia of Tucson Medical Center housekeeping—a TMC and a crossed broom and mop—on my uniform. I was truly trying to “find myself.” I decided to take a night course in geology at the nearby University of Arizona . . . and promptly flunked it. Someone told me that persistence pays off, so the next semester I took it again . . . and flunked it again. There I was, 0 for 2 at the university, floundering, and wondering what was next in my life.
But short of my twenty-second birthday, my life changed. I met Sande, a nurse’s aide, and fell head-over-heels in love with her. When we started to date, she popped the question. She asked me if I wanted to go to church with her! You have to know that going to church was the last thing on my mind. My perception of Christians was that they were some of the weirdest people who walked this earth. But Sande had something that radiated out from her personality, and it attracted me. So I went to church with her that next Sunday morning . . . and then she wanted me to come back with her at night. I remember thinking, No woman is worth this!
But Sande was, so I went. That night the pastor talked about a guy who knew about Jesus Christ in his head but didn’t know him in his heart. As I sat there, feeling very uncomfortable, I had to tell myself the truth: I was one of those guys, and he was talking about me. Every time I looked up, I saw the pastor’s brown eyes looking right at me.
That evening I remember walking out of that church, feeling clean for the first time in my life. And I was in awe that I could not only talk to God, but that he would actually listen to me. I could have a relationship with the One who had made me.
The truth of the matter is, when I met God, my life did a 180. In his mercy, he gave me motivation to go back to school not only for one class, but full-time, while I was still working full-time as a janitor.
That first semester back, I received all As and one B. I was even put on the honors list. I still remember staring at my name on that report card and saying my name audibly. “Kevin Leman.” The grades were so incongruous with how I saw myself that I couldn’t believe they were mine!
Soon after that I got a note that I was to report to the dean.
My first response? “I didn’t do nothin’ wrong!” (It was a learned response, believe me.) I was scared. My little-boy thinking told me, Last time I saw a dean, he threw me out of college.
I went to see him anyway.
“Son,” the dean said, “you’ve won University Scholarship Honors. We’re going to pay for your tuition next semester.”
I about fell off my chair. Had I—Kevin Leman, flunky—heard right?
After that point, I became an honors student.
I had come so far . . . and I credit my success to my mother. She, of all people, was the person who had believed in me all along the way.
And that gave me the firepower for success in my adult life. It gave me the confidence to discover what I was good at.
I was so glad when at last my mother could retire. She deserved it. I wanted her to be able to enjoy life. After my mother died, I found a letter of mine she’d saved that I’d written when our daughters Holly and Krissy were four and two. Here’s what it said:
Sally [my sister] got the piano. Jack [my brother] got my train.
But we really think we got the best thing:
You in Tucson.
It was far more important to me—more important than any worldly possessions—that the woman in my life who had formed who I have become, could live in the same town and be a part of my own kids’ growing-up years.
That “other woman” in my life made all the difference in the adult I am today. And your husband’s “other woman” makes all the difference in the adult your guy has become.
SMOTHERING, DISCIPLINING, OR DRIVING?
The wise wife will take into account her husband’s upbringing—the way he was treated by his mother, who had him for at least 18 years.
Smother mothers
Smother mothers don’t let their children play sports because they don’t want them to get hurt. They don’t want them to climb trees because they might fall. They won’t let them go on hikes because they might get lost. In short, they won’t let them do the things that boys enjoy most and that keep them competing, conquering, and winning.
Those who rock the cradle rule the world.
—Stuart and Jill Briscoe, Living Love
Yes, those mothers might keep their children more “safe” physically. But there’s a dangerous catch: If you keep a boy from doing healthy things for 18 years, he’s going to rebel completely as soon as he gets the chance. He won’t rebel by doing healthy things either, such as coaching his son’s or daughter’s basketball team or playing golf. Even worse, in many cases, the man won’t be able to take it out on his mother, so he’ll take it out on his wife.
Lucky you!
A smother mother often makes excuses for her boy. If the kid wants to duck out of school, she writes a note that says, Seth is not feeling well. If he runs off and plays before doing his chores, she shrugs. If he wants to play Nintendo instead of doing his homework, she looks the other way.
She is all too willing to “bend” the truth to protect her little boy’s reputation.
Let’s say the kids are late to school because Seth and Karyn were fighting all morning. The smart mom will put that bit of information in the note to school! She won’t let the kids even think she’d cover for them. Instead, she’ll write
Dear Teacher,
Seth is late to school because he was irresponsible this morning
and kept fighting with his sister instead of getting ready.
The smother mother, on the other hand, will come up with a lame excuse that preserves her son’s temporary “image” . . . but, in the process, she’ll be sacrificing his long-term character.
Ever wonder why your husband might assume you’d cover for his mistakes? why you’d be okay with lying for him to save him from embarrassment? Take a look at his mother. Was she a smother mother? Was she his cover-up?
My kids know that I will die for them, provide for them, protect them, forgive them, and love them, but I will never lie for them. I won’t make them weaker by allowing them to avoid personal responsibility.
When a mother refuses to lie for her son, she’s teaching him that women aren’t for using. They aren’t for hiding behind or to be used as part of a cover-up scheme.
If your husband’s mom was a weak woman, your husband probably thinks that all women are weak, although he’d probably never verbalize it. If he learned early in life that he could control and manipulate his mom, he’ll assume that he can control and manipulate you.
Before you flare up at another’s faults, take time to count 10 of your own.
—Mrs. Amos Miller
If you’ve married into this situation, what can you do? You’ve got to take charge. Right now. Lovingly but forcefully stand up for yourself and show some strength.
Another thing to consider is whether your husband’s mom gave him room to fail. Once when I was on a radio program, a female caller said that in order for her son to get anything done, she had to follow him around the house, saying, “Pick up your shoes! Tuck in your shirt!” She went on and on about all the things her son never got done and the lengths she had to go to make him do them.
When she ran out of breath, I asked her, “How would you like it if someone followed you around the house with a pad and pencil, writing down all the things you did wrong? telling you, ‘Clean that table again. I found a spot! Wash off the counter! Oops, you missed a piece of lint when you vacuumed the living room!’”
There was silence for a minute, then she said, “I wouldn’t like it at all.”
“Of course not,” I told her, “and neither does your son. We parents mess up and kids do too. Don’t hold your son to a standard you can’t match.”
We all need standards and principles, but I’m always suspicious of rules. When I think of guiding principles, I think of Jesus’ approach to life: Love others as you would want to be loved. Love as I love you. When I think of rules, I think of the Pharisees’ approach to life. You know, those nose-held-high-in-the-air and I’m-better-than-you folks in the Bible who were always “shoulding” everybody but themselves: “you should do this” and “you should do that.”
I applaud parents who want to raise respectful, good-mannered kids.2 But too many people in so-called Christian homes mimic the Pharisees more than they imitate Jesus. One of the key roles of being a parent is to temper your good intentions with grace. Moms, especially, can tend to be flaw pickers.
The law of the home should always be, Am I treating my family members the way I would want to be treated?
Enough said.
Rules without relationship lead to rebellion.
—Josh McDowell
A disciplining mother
The first mark of a disciplining mother is that she doesn’t do anything for her kids that they can do for themselves. I’m not suggesting that a mother should refuse to serve her children a glass of milk when they ask for it. But have you ever gone to a science fair and realized that there were only one or two projects that were actually done by the kids, not by the parents? Some parents are so concerned with creating the impression that their kids are the best that they teach their children to put image over substance and display something that the kids know they didn’t build.
If that child continues to place image over substance, he’ll be all promise and no performance at work. He’ll look like a devoted husband but may be anything but in his thoughts and actions.
If your husband’s mother refused to participate in discipline, instead handing it over to her husband, chances are that your spouse doesn’t take you very seriously. A child must develop respect early on, and the wise mom will use the value of shock to get her point across.
For example, if a son says something very hurtful—such as, “I hate you!” or swears at his mom—the disciplining mother won’t fall apart. Instead, she’ll maintain her composure. But when that child comes to remind her later that day that he needs a ride to his basketball game, she’ll calmly say, “I’m sorry, Billy, but you’re not going to the game.”
Billy is mystified. “What do you mean, I’m not going to the game? We talked about it this morning!”
“That’s right, we did,” she’ll answer. “But that was before you spoke disrespectfully to me, which I don’t appreciate.”
Waiting until the right moment will create a shock value that will open this boy’s ears. Dressed, ready to go out the door, he’ll never forget this lesson. If your husband’s mom caved in, however, your husband may treat your requests as irritations rather than something he should take seriously. This may be the time for him to experience some consequences of his actions.
The driving mother
Did your mother-in-law keep your husband busy, busy, busy?
I find more and more men in my counseling office who have no idea of what a socializing family is all about. Many of them never enjoyed leisurely meals at home with their parents. Instead of taking vacations with their siblings, they were off by themselves at sports camps.
The pace that some families set for themselves is crazy. I’ve talked to parents whose kids started tumbling and gymnastics when they were age three or four, soccer at five, T-ball at six, and karate lessons at seven. By age eight, they are doing all of those sports simultaneously in the same school year. I know of a 10-year-old boy—an only child—whose mom allowed him to play on three different basketball teams during the same season. That approach is plain nuts.
The more busy you are, the more shallow you are.
—Unknown
If your husband’s childhood schedule included Scouts on Monday, basketball practice on Tuesday and Thursday, band practice on Wednesday, basketball games on Friday and Saturday, and youth group on Sunday, it’s likely he didn’t have a chance to really bond with his family.
As a result, when he marries, he may have a radically different view of what a family is and does. It may not match at all the image that you cherish of family togetherness.
Not surprisingly, he may bristle when you say, “Honey, we never see you anymore. Can we set aside at least two nights a week where we can have dinner as a family? All of us?”
Because such a picture has not been a part of his experience as a child, it will take some tricky finagling for you to “reeducate” him—in kindness and love, of course.
The most important thing is to remember that you didn’t marry a “clean slate.” Your man was shaped, formed, and molded by another woman. And that other woman—his mother—has made all the difference in who your husband has become today and how he relates to you and your children, if you have any.
But are you stuck with such behaviors? Certainly not! You, the one he loves and trusts the most, can make all the difference in your husband’s life right now and in the future by how you strive to understand, accept, and celebrate him. See Manspeak for some starting ideas.
VIVE LA DIFFÉRENCE!
A big challenge in marriage is learning to understand someone who is so different from you (and I’m not talking just the interior and exterior plumbing).
The goal in marriage is not to think alike but to think together.
—Unknown
In today’s honorable struggle to gain more respect for women, we’ve thrown out common sense with our prejudice. Clearly, men and women are of equal social value. Men aren’t worth more than women. God doesn’t love men more than women or women more than men. But society went south when it took this notion of equality and came up with this ridiculous conclusion: therefore, men and women are the same. And that’s the message today’s society—including advertisements and movies—tries to push.
But men and women are not the same. A man’s brain and a woman’s brain are different. For example, did you know that the part of the brain controlling visual-spatial abilities and concepts of mental space—skills necessary for tasks such as mathematics and architecture—is about 6 percent larger in men than in women?3 Men’s brains are larger, but women’s brains contain more brain cells.4
Women’s hearts beat faster than men’s hearts. When men and women perform identical tasks, different areas of their brains light up in response.5
It’s no wonder that a man finds a woman a mystery sometimes, and that a woman finds a man a mystery sometimes. We truly are different.
But I say, “Thank God, we’re different!”
And as the Lord God said after he created Adam, “It is not good for the man to be alone. I will make a helper suitable for him.”6
Then he created Eve.
I can picture Adam waking up to this beautiful creature by his side and his jaw dropping open in awe. And he probably said something very spiritual, like “Holy moley!”
As experts believe:
The word helper may more accurately mean a strength or a power, and thus women are comparable to men. God, therefore, made woman for the man as his equal and his match as his partner in life. She was taken from one of the man’s ribs, probably to show an interdependence. She was dependent on the man; men are dependent upon a woman to give birth to them. Some observe that the earliest language of Mesopotamia, Sumerian, has a word for rib that also means life.7
From the very beginning, God designed men to be men . . . and women to be women. And as such, we see life from completely different angles. Since you haven’t ever been a boy, it’s not surprising you don’t think or act like one. And since your guy hasn’t been a girl, it’s not surprising he doesn’t think or act like one.
But those differences, when taken hand in hand instead of as a competition, can lead to a most satisfying, exciting partnership.
A partnership where boys can be boys, and girls can be girls.
Even when both never quite grow up.