help! i’m outnumbered two writers share what it’s like to be surrounded by the opposite sex in your own home
Two writers share what it’s like to be surrounded by the opposite sex in your own home
✢ eleni Kyriacou lives in london with her husband, andrew, and their two sons, ryan, 20, and aaron, 18.
Nobody can really prepare you for living in a houseful of men. My sons weren’t a total surprise – along with my husband, Andrew, we’d been trying to adopt and were thrilled when our two little strangers arrived, Ryan aged six and Aaron, four. Despite the fact my own family up to then had been very female (one sister, no brothers, four nieces, five aunties, and 10 female first cousins), I honestly didn’t think twice about being the only woman in a house of men. Boys… girls – we’re all the same really, aren’t we?
No. The first thing that struck me was their sheer energy and physicality. I’d never seen anything like it. All gangly elbows and knees, the roughand-tumble play of their early days left an impressive procession of bruises (on me), with my record peaking at eleven on one leg. And then there were the scrapes, bumps and heart-stopping accidents as they fearlessly hurled themselves around the house “playing” with us and each other (four A&E visits in 10 days was our personal best).
Now 20 and 18, their strength and size (both over 6ft) still astound me… which leads me onto food. It’s a relentless cycle of demand and supply you can never conquer. I know growing girls can eat huge amounts too, but boys will make £100 worth of food disappear like some freaky sleight of hand magic
The boys’ jokes are louder, there’s more teasing, lots of mud… and huge appetites
trick. Watch, ladies and gents, as I fill the fridge, leave the house for the afternoon, return and… ta-dah! It’s empty.
Then there’s the Toilet Seat Thing. I don’t really want to talk about this, except to say that anyone outnumbered by men quickly learns the benefit of investing in a fancy slow-release seat that doesn’t slam regardless of how very hard you have to put it down. Or how often.
Yes, there’s much that’s great too. They can lift and shift just about any piece of furniture and make it look easy. Unfortunately this means they feel compelled to do it constantly.
I’m sure girls can be infuriating, but do they meticulously measure the dimensions of their bedroom and furniture, draw floorplans to scale, write said measurements on the skirting board (with a black Sharpie), then spend two hours noisily rearranging the furniture before calling you in to proudly show off how they’ve eked out an extra few inches and (look!) created a chillout corner, sleeping area and turned the shelving unit on its side so it’s now a desk? No. Life with girls, I imagine, would be filled with windowshopping and mother-daughter spa visits, followed by life-affirming heart-to-hearts over a light lunch. In the evenings we’d slip into our pyjamas, snuggle up and watch any film as long as it featured Julia Roberts/George Clooney (preferably both).
So what have I taught the boys? Hopefully the importance of empathy, separating colours from whites, and moisturising. They’ve taught me that, in a funny way, boys are just like girls, really, but with louder jokes, more teasing, lots of mud and huge appetites.
Truth is, I adore being in their company and every now and again, when the four of us go out for dinner, something special happens (and not just because they scrub up well and are on their best behaviour). I sit across the table from them and suddenly see them for who they are – two (make that three) lovely men I’m privileged to know.
It’s a girl,” I said seven years ago as the midwife handed a beautiful little wet bundle of humanity to my wife Miranda, who held her close for the first of many lovely cuddles. I wasn’t expecting to say those words, however. I was convinced our third child was going to be a boy for the very unscientific reason that, well, there weren’t any in our house and it was probably about time. But it’s never been that time.
This little baby, Matilda, joined the ranks of females in my house – my wife, my oldest daughter Daisy (now 10) and Miranda’s teenage daughter (and my stepdaughter) Lucia (17). Since then it’s been a veritable feast of femininity round my way, a cornucopia of knickers and nylons in the laundry and unicorn dolls on the sofa. And not a single rugby ball or Batman costume to be seen.
Ah, rugby! My favourite winter sport and a source of parental fantasies long before I became a dad. Kickabouts in the park with my mini-me, passing the
Girls seem more emotionally developed creatures, a constant source of discovery
baton of male wisdom to a son and heir, manly talks in the pub about girls when he came of age and was launched into the world – a better, nicer, happier man and also captain of the England First XV. But it’s not to be.
When Matilda was born I remember my mum telling me how lucky I was. “Girls are special,” she said, but of course she would say that. She’s a radical feminist writer who hates the “patriarchy” and tends to believe women are better in all things. But you know what? I have come to believe that she’s right. Not that it’s all been a walk (or kickabout) in the park.
Ten years of being surrounded entirely by girls has broadened my understanding of the opposite sex who, in the early part of my life, seemed very distant and inscrutable creatures (I had one much older sister who left home when I was 10 and I wasn’t exactly overburdened with girlfriends as a teen).
Now, I get girls. Girls are softer, gentler, more interesting. Their friendships are deep and intense… which of course carries a flip side.
Female aggression does exist but it seems to take place in the head. My days are quite full with all the playground politics of my kids, the she said/she said of school life that you seem to get less of with boys and which sees me trying to help with things like: “So what someone said Lola’s hair looked like a horse’s tail, horses are nice.”
I look at the boys in my girls’ classes and see they get on with things a bit more straightforwardly, playing sport most of the time and sorting their differences out with a dust-up now and then. But it’s much less interesting. Girls do seem more emotionally developed creatures, more nuanced, a constant source of discovery.
Also, it is great being the only boy in the house. We males crave female attention and love, let’s be honest, and I have that without any competitors, at least not until my girls start bringing boyfriends home, which of course they won’t ever (that’s a joke, by the way). But – and I don’t massively like myself for this – I do sometimes wonder if Matilda had been a boy. How would I have coped with my wife clutching another male human and telling him how much she loved him, even if this child were my own beloved son?
No, I am quite happy really, the lion with his pride of lionesses. And who says I can’t play rugby with them? The England women’s rugby team is pretty good these days and while Daisy’s not interested, Matilda is proving quite the accomplished little scrum half…