As my brother said once, it’s a wonder I’m not gay. I know that’s probably not the most politically correct statement, but there is some truth to it. If you’re looking for an argument to prove homosexuality is nature, not nurture, I can make a pretty compelling one. Because Lord knows mom did her darnedest to emasculate me as much as possible. Maybe I was the girl she always wanted, or at least fit the bill until my sister came along and she got a real one. She would always talk about how my aunt was pissed at her because mom was able to have a girl and my aunt was stuck with four boys.
I had pink footie pajamas. They had Strawberry Shortcake emblazoned across the front. I suppose they were at least a dark pink, more towards the magenta side. Why any pre-adolescent boy has pink footie pajamas is beyond me. I’m sure if you asked my mom, she’d have some argument that sounds very compelling in her warped little brain. I also had a nice Holly Hobbie lunch box. Yes, while my brother was styling with his Empire Strikes Back or Clash of the Titans lunchbox, I would endure the joy of plopping down in the lunchroom with my Holly Hobbie lunchbox and matching thermos. But hey, at least it was metal.
Mom also decided we should all collect something. For my brother, it was elephants. Large, majestic creatures. Regal and powerful. For my sister, it was bears. Again, masters of their own domain. Cute and fuzzy as a stuffed animal, but still powerful enough to kick the ass of any monsters lurking under the bed. In her infinite wisdom, mom decided I should collect something equally mystical and empowering.
I collected bunnies. Nature’s snack. Show me a bunny in the wild and I’ll show you an owl or a cat that has it eyed up for dinner. I heard a bunny getting eaten by a coyote in the middle of the woods at night once. I never knew the little boogers could squeal like that. I suppose you could argue that theoretically at least I got to hump a lot, but that was clearly not the case.
She did whatever she could to emasculate me, and to this day I’m not quite sure why. Perhaps it was some twisted outlet for her own self-esteem issues. Regardless, it left scars.
Since she hated noise so much, bathroom visits in the middle of the night could be quite perilous. First, there was the navigation of the dark corners, then the tiptoeing down the creaky steps, then the actual process of peeing. Given the fact that the toilet was separated by a thin wall opposite her headboard for a good portion of my childhood, peeing standing up was a deathwish. The clatter of tinkle in the bowl would be sure to arouse the slumbering beast. Most times I just held it.
They say curiosity killed the cat. Well, I’ve always been curious, and it’s almost killed me more than once. It’s an innocent curiosity. I genuinely like learning things. As I get older, I find that the more I learn, the more dots get connected in the most fascinating ways. I’ve realized that I don’t have nearly enough lifetimes to learn about all the things that interest me, and that bums me out a bit.
When I was younger and learning about the world around me, that curiosity revolved around simple things. Sights, sounds, tastes, smells — the wonderment of the physical world. Every child begins to explore, and nurturing parents encourage this exploration wholeheartedly, all the while providing a safe environment for the newbie explorer.
For example, I learned that I prefer the flavor of orange to cherry and grape. That peach and apple jolly ranchers are my favorite hard candy. That the smell of fresh basil makes me want to make pasta sauce. That empire apples are great off the tree and in pies. That carrots are fine raw, but awful when cooked. That pickled beets make me want to vomit. That a mouthful of fresh mint leaves makes a nice summer chew (and that mint plants are hard to kill!). Lemon herb leaves are even better, but those are hard to sneak out of Mom’s herb garden. That hot banana peppers should never be plucked right out of the garden and eaten raw, seeds and all, no matter how hungry you are. That if you spend too much time with your tongue under a running faucet in the bathroom, Mom gets suspicious, and it doesn’t really stop the burning anyway.
There were a lot of painful lessons in that bathroom. One of the early ones revolved around the scent of orange, my natural inquisitiveness, and a night I couldn’t hold my pee.
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