Maternal Instinct

"Seriously, Mommy, you just don't understand. She is incredibly strong, stronger than all of us boys! We asked her if she takes Karate classes but she just said no, she just learned'ed it all herself!"

The she-woman in question is an exceptionally lovely four-year-old from a local French-Moroccan family, in Elan's class, with large brown eyes and wavy hair. I've watched her grow for the last two-and-a-half years. Apparently, she moonlights as an ass-kicker.

"I don't get it - why was she fighting with you?" I'm slightly perturbed, never fully comfortable in the presence or talk of fist-fighting. (My brothers and I just used the meanest words imaginable.)

"I don't know, she just got all the girls together to fight against the boys. Really just against me and Kevin. And those girls are extremely strong! We couldn't even beat them. We tried, but they're better fighters." His eyes are wide with good, old-fashioned appreciation.

Now, I can always muster up some respect for a guy who respects a girl, but can't you just imagine the conversation?

- Wow. Moves like that - you're obviously trained. Ju-Jitsu?
- Why no, as a matter of fact. I'm entirely self-taught.
- (low whistle) Daaamn, girl! Wait'll I tell my Mommy!

But when the next day, my son comes home with an unfamiliar Band-Aid on his finger, attributed, with a shrug, to "Aurelie. She's just really tough and has sharp nails. I had to go to the school office and Bernice put it on my cut," I begin to re-think his apparent "respect" of the female species.

I raise an eyebrow, zooming in on his cut, even as Elan - already preoccupied with something else - trots off into the family room.

I'm torn, see, because part of me is always rooting for the woman, and if shattering the glass ceiling has to start in pre-school, well, then that little girl just might be my hero. Go, chicka!

Another part of me knows full-well that Elan and Kevin probably deserve EXACTLY what they seem to be getting from the, uh, gentler sex, that it's quite doubtful the attacks came unprovoked. I've heard my son make threats, and it's entirely possible he suggested he'd "squeeze her brain out of her ears" or something equally testostorone-laced. You know, just insulting enough to make the fair Aurelie feel it was time to gather the troops.

I get it, sister. I do.

Except.

Except this is MY kid you're messing with, MY boy. And I know he couldn't be TOO mean to you because he still blushes when we mention his first love, Michelle. He blushes before he gets angry at us for teasing him. In other words, he, like most men, is vulnerable - putty in your hands.

And yes, I do realize that there are more and more Tough Girls on TV these days, girls who kick boys' butts with a stilletto heel every day at their CIA operative/prosecutor/heart surgeon/vampire-slaying day jobs and I, too, favor this light of feminine portrayal over that of the cheerleader and younger sister of shows past. Hell, I want to be Jennifer Garner in Alias just as much as you do. I, too, want to serve the greater good.

But I see you in the mornings and you're not wearing any Band-Aids, honey. And yes, I might spend half my paycheck at your daddy's kosher market twice a week, and yes, I might thoroughly enjoy when he and your uncles call across the store to greet me because of how cool my name sounds spoken with an accent. Yes, I get a tiny thrill every time I overhear them saying oui to each other and I understand what that one word means.

And granted, you are absolutely stunning, and I covet your eyelashes even though you're practically a baby and I probably shouldn't be jealous of anything about anyone so young. True, your smile is sweet and appears innocent and it's pretty cool that you do all your own stunts.

But sweetheart. I'm gonna give this to you straight:

Make Elan bleed again and it'll be girl-versus-girl.

And I am NOT self-taught.