Mothers, Be Good To Your Daughters, too...

Do you remember that day when we went to the zoo, Mom? When the sun was shining down on us, and you chaperoned my group, and we watched the fish? You bought me a stuffed animal, and told me that you wanted me to remember it forever. I remember. There were lots of choices, but I picked the kangaroo with her joey tucked into her pouch, because I wanted it to be you and I- me tucked against you.


Do you remember when I was eight, and you thought I was going to start my period early, so you told me all about it, and gave me “Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret.” I started watching right then, and by the time I was twelve, I started to wonder if I was a man, because I had no distinguishable breasts and I wasn’t bleeding. I was so relieved that I was a girl when it finally came that I cried, all alone in my bedroom that night. You don’t remember, but I do.

Do you remember when I was thirteen, and you had to pick me up at school because they asked me to leave, and we went and got pizza and ice cream before you booked me an appointment with the therapist, under the agreement that I wouldn’t “pretend to have problems” anymore? She thought I was the most intelligent child ever to come in her office, but we both knew that I was smarter than I let on.

Do you remember when I was fourteen, and you found out that I had kissed that girl from church? You threatened her with a lawsuit, and said she couldn’t come over anymore, and I didn’t understand how my mom could have suddenly become so mean. Back then, I thought girls who wore pink were the worst thing in the world, and when you threatened me with a one, I started seeing boys again.

Do you remember when those boys decided that my hand wasn’t enough to hold, and you got another call from the school? Heavy sweaters that had no zips became my uniform, and you wondered why I hated the low cut tops you thought would suit me or dated the boys who carried instrument cases and makeup bags.

Do you remember when we went on diets together, and I lost weight? We went shopping, just the two of us, and you talked about what we could buy if I was just a little thinner, just a little taller. I wondered if I’d ever be pretty enough to find a boy that liked me for my personality, and made you happy, so you didn’t have to make fun of me anymore.

Do you remember when I was happy, Mom? Before homework replaced watching television with you and my cell phone took silly text messages instead of business calls; do you remember when I would make dolls and line them up on the kitchen counters, all smiling and bright blue eyes- soft ones that looked like me, and sharp ones that looked like you?

Do you remember when I was sixteen, and I realized that I couldn’t be the daughter you wanted me to be? Do you remember how you wondered how I could be so mean to you? Do you remember how my moods changed faster than lightning strikes- my calculated words falling away to reveal aggravation and contempt?

Do you remember when I was three, and you told me I would always be your favorite little girl, no matter what?

I remember Mom. I remember.