What are little boys made of? Well before I had Olly you would have found me spouting off about how if you raise a boy and girl the same way you’ll find very little difference. How it was society that moulded the male and the gender divide was totally artificial. How wrong I was. 

The difference didn’t show itself at first; Olly was a just a baby, in fact he was often mistaken for a girl. It wasn’t until he could make sounds, either by himself or with the aid of an implement that I began to realise the foolishness of my original ideas. Everything became about making noise: hand Olly a toy and rather than play with it, he would use it to smash anything within reach, just for the sound. I would hear, coming from his mouth, something like a seagull being squashed against a harbour wall by a rusty boat; rushing to his aid, fearful of him being in some terrible pain, I’d be greeted by a big, beaming smile. From as early as I can remember he has been able to make car noises, plane noises, any engine noise.

Now at three and a half, Olly’s maxim is why say it when you can shout it, why whisper when you can yell. Whenever he comes into a room, he doesn't walk, he leaps or jumps, and announces that Superman, SuperBlueBoy or a Big Lion is here (usually with some evil intent in mind). After a particularly ear-splitting session recently I asked him what in God’s name he was doing. Olly looked at me incredulously: "Jus yellin" was the reply.

Then there is the bashing. Olly is definitely into contact sport. He likes nothing better than to up-end one of the kitchen chairs and push it across the floor at high speed until it crashes into the wall. He takes out the saucepan lids and bashes them together while singing Twinkle Little Star at the top of his voice. We have had to teach him to call "look out below" due to the number of times he has chucked stuff over the banisters. I’ve mentioned before his cache of bashing weapons; I’ve just had a look behind his bedroom door where he keeps them and I counted two swords, hoover pipe, handle from toy broom, fishing rod, hoover pipe (another one), pipe from toy petrol pump, mast off of a boat, spade from seaside. All of the above regularly make contact with doors, banisters, chairs, my legs and Billie’s head.

Then there is the aggression. Olly fights. He fights his sister, his dad, his mates and me. He has certain chums he rolls round the floor with, like a WWF wrestler, within seconds of meeting. The rolling around is usually preceded by a bear or lion roar, which is my cue to leap up and try and remove him before the fighting begins. When you’re out for a cup of coffee and a gossip, and your son is doing a favourable impression of a grizzly, things can get a little fraught, especially when he weighs in at a good stone heavier than a lot of his contemporaries. 

In desperation I looked to Steve Biddulph, Tim Kahn, Steve and my Dad. They all say roughly the same thing, which is that testosterone influences boys’ energy and behaviour. Tim Kahn talks about play fighting being accompanied by laughing, and I agree that this is often the case. Olly really seems to enjoy it. However, he is also in the habit of hitting out in anger and that has caused so much anguish for me. When you are the parent of a child that hits it can be an ostracising experience: you know that other people are judging you and your child and finding your parenting skills wanting. It can be really depressing to feel the pressure to constantly reprimand your child, when oftentimes the scuffles would be forgotten in a moment without your intervention.

To combat this I have encouraged Olly’s female friendships and we have had no problems at all when he plays with girls. He also has two very good male friends, boys who are physically a match for him, whom he still spars with occasionally but it is more even.

It’s a steep learning curve for me. Steve is much more sanguine about it all, I guess because the territory is more familiar to him. This weekend Olly shouted at the robin in the garden, and I yanked him into the house and told Steve that I thought there was something wrong with our son. Steve smiled and said "As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport". What this means in English is that boys will be boys. They make a noise, bash things, fight and chase animals; it’s in their nature. (The fact that, as a child, Steve apparently spent hours in Stevenage fields making traps for big game that never came is another story.) So complete with slugs and snails and puppy dogs’ tails I clutch my wriggling, grubby, magnificent boy to me and thank goodness I’ve got the chance to watch nature in action.

Juliet Jones lives in domestic chaos with husband Steve, son Oliver (aged 3) and daughter Billie (aged 2) in Hertfordshire.

RECOMMENDED BOOKS:

RAISING BOYS by Steve Biddulph, published by Thorsons
BRINGING UP BOYS by Tim Kahn, published by Piccadilly

NEXT INSTALMENT: MONDAY 22 APRIL

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