EMISSIONS:Does our gender give us a predisposition to love or loathe all things mechanical, asks KILIAN DOYLE.
THERE’S A kid living on my street who’s obsessed with cars. So much so that he thinks he’s a traffic cop.
He prances about wearing a yellow reflective vest and blue baseball cap with police badges sewn onto them. He’s even got a pair of shiny handcuffs and fancy belt to carry his torch and walkie-talkie in. No car passes unchecked when he’s out on the beat. He’s a legend in his own uniform and – in his seven-year-old mind at least – a force to be reckoned with.
He cracks me up, bless him.
I’m pulling into our cul-de-sac one recent evening and there he is in the middle of road, right arm raised. Happy to play along, I roll down my window as I come to a halt. “What seems to be the problem, officer?” says I, all deferential-like.
“Problem? Dere’s speeders everywhere!” he spouts. “Are you one o’ dem speeders? I’ll put ye in de prison in me back garden wit de udders if ye are!”
The poor wee chap is apoplectic. His face is turning crimson, veins are popping in his neck. This is getting weird.
At this very moment, my neighbour, who is a real traffic cop, appears on the scene.
He’s highly amused. “Jayney, he’s fierce committed, that lad. Must get him out on the job, eh?” he jokes. At least I think he’s joking. I certainly hope so.
I laugh politely and scarper, leaving him to deal with the whirling ball of blue-hatted fury trying to handcuff his leg to a lamppost.
Retreating into my home, I’m greeted by another little boy who’s mad for all things mechanical: my two-year-old son, Turbo, who’s wheeling the long-suffering cat around in a yellow plastic dumpster. “Truck! Cat! Look!” barks yer man, like a tiny Father Jack.
My daughter is standing behind him, covered in facepaint and pink glitter and pretending to be some manner of mermaid-butterfly hybrid. She regards her brother disdainfully for a moment.
“Trucks are stupid,” says she with undisguised contempt, before turning on her heel and shuffling off with as much grace as can be expected of someone wearing a taffeta fish tail.
Himself has, by now, got the truck on his head, having tipped the cat out first, and is merrily bashing his bonce off the banisters, concussion be damned.
The disparity between the two sexes’ attitude to vehicles got me thinking. Why are boys obsessed with cars and trucks and their ilk while girls think they are “stupid”? And does this have any relevance to their later life? Are girls who set up garages in their bedrooms destined to grow up favouring comfortable shoes? And are boys who shun lorries in favour of My Little Pony set for futures as personal stylists?
You’d be forgiven for thinking the preference is down to the sexual stereotypes we instil in children during their infancy, by buying cars for boys and dolls for girls. But that’s not necessarily true.
Research would suggest hormones are far more important in creating the petrolhead-princess divide, if you believe the random studies I dredged from the foul slurry-pit of tosh and misinformation that is the internet.
They show that boys are exposed to more testosterone in the womb and are better at spatial and mechanical functioning skills than girls. Which is why they like trucks. They also have less serotonin and oxytocin, making them more impulsive and thrill-seeking. Which is why they like crashing them.
Girls have stronger verbal and emotional skills, steering them more to dolls, stuffed animals and toys with faces. And away from trucks.
The lesson to be learned from all of this? If you really want to confuse your baby daughter, give her a furry train with a face on it. She’ll be out directing traffic while dressed as a flower fairy in no time.