There’s this kid I grew up with. This kid was generally messy – the bedroom was a science experiment, with dirty dishes shoved under the bed during emergency clean-ups, only when outdoor play time was threatened.
Clothing and toys were everywhere and you might say that the child was an early stage hoarder. Everything – trinkets, happy meal toys, drawings, school papers, rocks – was treasure. Sentimental attachments to stuff abounded.
Favorite activities were tree climbing, playing in the water hose, wiffle ball with the neighborhood kids, touch football, basketball and playing in the ditch looking for frogs and tadpoles. Tiny baby frogs were the rare, but ultimate, find.
Getting dressed up was a no-go. Jeans or shorts with t-shirts only, please. Why was it necessary to dress up for church? Why did God need kids to be uncomfortable?
This kid was also a late bloomer. Puberty showed up late to the party, so while everyone else was becoming something “more,” this kid remained, well, a kid, a little while longer.
Interests were Transformers, GI Joe, Star Wars and the like. Also, art was pretty cool. New packs of crayons and markers were the best.
There are many other things that could be said about this kid, but for now let me ask you this:
Reading the description above, would this kid most likely be a little boy or a little girl?
I’m sure you realize that I’ve been describing myself all along, because you’re smart people and you’re quick that way.
So, the kid that loved frogs, wiffle ball and Transformers, and hated dressing up and cleaning up, was me – a girl. Or supposed to be, anyway.
This was the foundation of one of my ongoing struggles in life, which was and is, not feeling like I measure up as a woman. I didn’t and don’t feel like I fit the mold.
To be continued (at some future time…could be days or weeks…can’t make any promises…I have commitment issues).