How does a hapless 21st century dad raise three young sons to manhood without taming their natural wildness? Modern society seems more interested in turning wild boys into mild boys, rather than harnessing their natural aggressiveness in traditional male virtues like protecting the innocent and seeking justice. Author Tony Woodlief describes his near-obsessive quest to find books, toys, movies, and other resources that teach boys to develop their character without losing what he calls “The Cowboy Gene.” In the course of that struggle, he finds out the true meaning of fatherhood. As a special bonus, check out the appendix of dozens of great books for boys of all ages compiled by Woodlief through his own experience, and by talking to other parents of wild boys. Included are favorite suggestions from well-known writers like Marvin Olasky, Meghan Cox Gurdon and Robert Avrech. EXCERPT By the conventional measure of a real man, I am sorely lacking. I was never on a football team, and I’ve never been hunting. I loathe camping. I can’t build a log cabin with my bare hands, or with power tools and a detailed instruction manual, for that matter. I can’t even understand why anyone would want to live in a log cabin. When it rains, I like to burrow under the blankets and pretend that I am in a (safe and seaworthy) ship on the ocean. I own the six-hour BBC version of “Pride and Prejudice.” I shriek like a girl when I get a paper cut. These are not qualities most people associate with manliness. But whether out of a sense of humor, or vengeance, or sheer perversity, God has given my wife and me three boys to raise. Now, in most circumstances, the number three is not all that large. Three dollars, for example, won’t even get you a sneer at Starbucks. If only three friends show up to help you move, it means you are a bastard. And when there’s just three shopping days left until Christmas, we panic. Most of the time, three is a small number. Until, that is, three is the number of youngsters dancing around on your bed at 7 o’clock on a Saturday morning while you try to protect your sensitive parts from heels that strike like little ball-peen hammers. The number three becomes legion when it’s how many voices are loudly bickering over the last piece of gum in church, or the number of hands stuffed under sweaty little armpits, trying to generate obscene noises at the dinner table. Numbers, it turns out, are relative. My mother had three sons, too, and we drove that poor woman crazy. I used to think her tenuous hold on reality was the consequence of brain chemistry. Now I understand that it was we three boys who drove her nuts. Before we came along, my mother could finish complete sentences. She read things. She danced ballet. She rarely raised her voice. I remember telling my mother, in a fit of anger, that I would not be like her when I was a parent. I remember her cackling (this is how crazy people laugh, you know), and predicting that I would have three boys of my own. Then you’ll see, she said. I hope you have three boys just like you and your brothers. And God listened to her. |