But you see, I could handle boys. I would raise boys. Real boys

When I was young and stupid — okay, younger and stupider — I dreamed of a gang of boys. Rough and tough, tumble, bumble, pell-mell, all-over-the-place boys, as leibedig as my brothers were (even though this characterization insulted my mother to no end, because she understood the word to be a euphemism for vilde chaya).

Way back in camp, we were sitting around the bunkhouse and the conversation turned from segulos (Take nine sips of water and kiss the mezuzah between each sip to fast well. Cups, not sips! Sips! Cups! Sips! Cups!) to analyzing personalities. You gotta love girls in camp.

This was me: leibedig, but practical. I loved the outdoors, sports and movement, hiking and canoeing. I knew how to have fun and to get others to join my late-night basketball games, but I also knew when and how to stop and get things done. Also, I scorned segulos. So, of course, I was soooo the type to be a good boy-mom.

And boys are so much more exciting than girls. Girls play their inane little dolly games, and they play school and sheitelmacher. Girls dream elaborate dreams about the day they’ll get married and what their hair and gown will look like. (I did these things too, but don’t tell, it would totally ruin my image.)