05/27/11

Tickled Pink



I’ve been thinking a lot about feminism recently. It started with all of the signs I’ve been seeing around my office for the Southern Charm Academy. I went to the Web site to check it out – I do love me some Southern charm – and wasn’t really sure what to think. I am pretty traditional about etiquette in some ways (Ruby is 4 and has her own custom stationery, which I use to write thank you notes that she dictates and signs herself; she says “please,” “thank you” and “nice to meet you” as a matter of course; and we both understand the value of an apology) but less so in others (I curse like a sailor, I don’t make her call adults “Mr.” and...

Posted at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments: 4

05/19/11

Graduation Days

Kindergarten. 1986. I was 5. I lived with my parents in the right half of a duplex on Ponce de Leon Street. There was a Japanese plum tree in our side yard, and I spent a lot of time sitting in its branches making up stories and rubbing the fuzz off of the leaves to expose the shiny bright-green underneath. I was in Ms. Sirgo’s kindergarten class at McDonogh No. 15 in the French Quarter, and my best friend was Kate O’Connell.

At the end of the year, on the last day, we all sang a song that the upper grades had written called, “Hey, Mr. Buggy Man.” I can still remember the chorus: “Hey, Mr. Buggy Man/Let’s take a ride today/Go up Decatur Street to Jackson Square/The streets are old and neat/Nice people that you meet/And...

Posted at 05:15 PM | Permalink | Comments: 3

05/13/11

Me and Alice

I first met Alice McKinley when I was 11 and really, really needed a friend. I know it sounds borderline creepy to refer to a fictional character as a friend, but I was a painfully shy and awkward kid, and reading was a lot easier for me than attempting a conversational gambit (“Want to diagram sentences with me?”) with an actual person. Ink and paper was just so much less daunting than flesh and blood.

Plus, as anyone who’s ever been an 11-year-old girl knows, 11-year-old girls are pretty crappy to each other. In memories, sixth grade is just a blur of pain and hormones; my two best friends and I were engaged in a series of fights and elaborate reconciliation rituals that were far and away more abusive than...

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05/06/11

Freckle Face

This is a post about a freckle. Not just any freckle, though – the tiny perfectly round brown freckle that has just recently made an appearance on the end of Ruby’s tiny perfect nose.

I swear it wasn’t there when she went off to St. Louis with her dad for Easter. But her first night back, I was wiping her face off before bed, and I noticed a particularly stubborn spot of dirt.

“What have you gotten on your nose, kiddo?” I asked.

“Oh, that’s my new freckle, Mama,” she said casually.

And I fell in love all over again.

Here’s my biggest mom confession: I did not fall in love with my daughter immediately. I immediately felt intense maternal protectiveness. I immediately felt...

Posted at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments: 4