An old man on a bus told me how to raise my son – I’ll be doing the opposite

I’ve always had a soft spot for my son, Theo’s, gentleness (Picture: Sarah Whiteley)

Sitting on the backseat of the bus with my husband Tom, my six-year-old son, Theo and my little girl, Immy, four, I smiled as an elderly gentleman sank into the seat opposite us. 

It wasn’t long before he struck up a conversation (don’t worry, I live in the north, it’s allowed).

‘Are they on half-term?’ he asked, nodding to my two children.

‘Next week, it’s late this year,’ I answered. Putting my arm around Theo, who was unusually quiet, I rolled my eyes good-naturedly. ‘I’ll be glad when it comes though. He’s ready for the break, he’s shattered.’

Instead of just nodding politely, or carrying out any other kind of social grace, the old man shook his head grumpily. 

‘You need to toughen him up,’ he replied.

Immediately, my smile froze on my face. I knew then and there our brief conversation was over. 

Because that was one thing I certainly wouldn’t be doing. I will not be toughening up my son.

I don’t care if the older generation say we’re raising snowflakes these days, I want Theo to stay as soft and lovely and innocent as he is for as long as possible.

Ever since he was born, Theo has always been a total softie. He loves a cuddle, he is forever smiling and, an early walker, the staff at his nursery would comment that he liked to take toys over to the babies who couldn’t get around yet.

Immy, on the other hand, has always been a tougher cookie. She’s far more independent than Theo – she stood on her own two feet, both literally and metaphorically, as soon as she was able.

I want Theo to stay as soft and lovely and innocent as he is (Picture: Sarah Whiteley)

‘Oops a daisy,’ she’d tell herself whenever she took a tumble as she started tottering around. Not bothering to wait for me or Tom to pick her up, she’d dust off her hands and take herself off again.

As soon as she could talk, she took charge of Theo – directing their games and picking their toys, while he happily went along with whatever she said. 

Both were completely different and I loved them all the more for their individuality.

But while I am in awe of Immy’s fierceness and her strong, determined character, I’ve always had a soft spot for Theo’s gentleness.

Of course, he’s not a total pushover and he’s certainly not squeaky clean. He runs riot when he’s with his friends, he answers back every now and then and can go from being best friends with Immy, to worst enemies within seconds.

But on the whole, he’s a really good boy, who is happy to do anything for anyone.

I’ll never forget his beaming face when he came out of reception in his first few weeks of school, clutching a piece of paper. ‘Look what the head teacher gave me in assembly today,’ he whispered, his eyes shining.

It was an ‘Always Attitude’ certificate, given every week to a student who shows a kind and caring nature towards their classmates, as well as trying hard with their studies. I literally thought my heart was going to melt right then and there.

Not just because Theo had been given it but because of how proud he was of himself.

But, I am painfully aware that he may not remain this way forever. Maybe, now that he is in school, not even for long.

It’s perfectly possible that he’ll soon realise it isn’t necessarily ‘cool’ to be a nice boy, that he might start getting cheekier in class or at home or start joining in with some playground teasing.

And I am dreading that day already. 

The day where the real world will start to have more of an impact on him than Tom and I do.

I loved them all the more for their individuality (Picture: Sarah Whiteley)

The day when he might become aware of certain stereotypes that he feels he has to live up to and starts to change.

The day his attitude might become one that he doesn’t get certificates for.  

Because while girls face enormous pressures in life – the recent Girl Guides survey depressingly showed their happiness levels are at an all-time low – boys are also under pressure.

Under pressure to ‘man up’, to not cry when they fall over, to bottle their emotions. To, as the man on the bus said, ‘toughen up’.

The results of these pressures can be tragic. These are the reasons that suicide is the biggest killer of men under 50.

We have to do something about that. And for me, that means allowing my son to be the person he is.

At six, I feel lucky that Theo is still very innocent, that most things, like playground bickers between his friends, seem to pass him right by and that he is happy to float along in his own little bubble.

The other day, I bumped into his dance teacher. ‘I’ve been meaning to tell you just how well-behaved Theo is in class,’ she told me. ‘It’s quite a… chatty group but there’s two of them, Theo and another boy, who do exactly what they’re told. I would have him as my own if I could.’

As I thanked her and walked away, my eyes welled with tears. I was so proud of him – and Immy, who gets her own heap of praise from her nursery teachers.

Why on earth would I want to change a little boy who people say things like that about? Why would I want to ‘toughen him up’, when I know the world will already do that to him in time?

So call him – or me – a snowflake if you want, but I’ll be keeping my son as soft as possible for as long as possible.

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Immediately, my smile froze on my face.