Boys Will Be Boys
“Boys will be boys.”
They use the phrase as a lazy defense
of chaos,
of tempers,
of misogyny,
of cruelty.
As if boys don’t have the ability to control themselves,
as if that’s all we expect.
“Boys will be boys,” the media’s told
from a microphone at the big white house.
But the phrase doesn’t make sense to me as I listen.
The boys she’s talking about aren’t like the ones I know.
My youngest son asked me to snuggle today.
Then he smiled big, his eyes lighting up with a glimmer.
Mischievous, to be sure, but nothing malicious.
That glimmer is just a warning
you’re about to get attacked with a hug,
one where he tries to, “Squeeze yow guts owt!”
“Boys will be boys,” I’m told.
My middle boy bangs sticks against a tree,
yells loudly just for fun,
and asks me to time him
as he runs laps around the cul-de-sac.
Then he comes inside before dinner,
grabs the silverware from the drawer,
and sets the table, feeds the dog, asks how he can help.
“Boys will be boys.”
I’m tired of that phrase being an insult,
a sign of the low expectations
we have for the men in our lives.
‘Cause my oldest son knocks softly on the door
and asks if I’m okay,
asks if there’s anything I need,
asks if we can play soccer in the front yard.
“Boys will be boys,” we’re told.
As if that’s a reason to let them be mean.
Be bullies.
Be vulgar.
Boys don’t have to be “those kinds” of boys,
the ones where unkindness is cool
and rage accepted,
even rewarded.
Sure, mine are the rough and tumble kind.
They wrestle to work out issues and laugh hysterically
when someone farts.
I have plenty of pictures of them covered in mud.
But boys will be boys is not an excuse,
no, not in this house.
It’s a prayer–
that my boys will be like the ones I’ve always been around:
That they’ll be like my husband who makes me coffee,
stays up late to do does the dishes,
selflessly serves for no gain of his own,
prays and leads and loves in both small and grand ways.
Like my brothers,
one who, though he’ll firmly deny it,
cried hard in the back of the church at my wedding
and would jump in front of a train for me if I needed.
Another who spent hours and hours when I was a kid
teaching me how to do a proper layup
then decades later spilled his sweat
unloading a moving truck, assembling beds, organizing our garage.
And the oldest,
the one who’s rushed to my house in an emergency, no questions asked,
watched my children, fed them copious amounts of pizza and ice cream,
given up time and money
to love me kids,
to love me…
“Boys will be boys,” they say.
And I pray my boys will be
like the ones I know so well.
Like my dad,
a man who’s seen war, seen grief, seen loss,
and yet says through it all,
“We have much to be thankful for.”
“Boys will be boys,” they say,
but I look at Jesus, God incarnate,
who showed up not with pomp and power,
but as a boy in a manger,
who wept with those who wept,
came near to the outcast,
and took all the blows meant for you and me
and loved us through it all.
If boys will be boys,
then that’s what I want.
Because boys in my world have integrity.
They do what’s needed and work hard and admit where they’re wrong.
The boys I know hold doors,
give up their seats,
change diapers,
fold laundry,
serve
and guide
And love.
Boys will be boys, yes.
But may they be like the boys I’ve always known.
This post was written in response to comments made in April, 2025 by White House press secretary, Karoline Leavitt.
