My Own Room…
My parents had 6 kids….never more than 4 at a time, but I’m sure that was plenty! Being the only girl and smack in the middle in order of appearance, there were always older or younger brothers to contend with. Because of this, regardless of the size of the house, Dad always insisted I have a room of my own, even if he had to create one out of nothing. I remember one bedroom built in the corner of a kitchen, created with painted plyboard partitions; and another created by sectioning off space in a wide hallway. These rooms were barely wide enough to accommodate a twin bed, and just long enough to place a tiny dresser at the foot, but they were mine. No boys allowed.
“You can do anything….but in a dress”
Dad began convincing me at a very early age that I was completely capable of doing any and all things my brothers could so. I totally believed him and spent my time proving he was right.
He saw something in me, a born determination or independence maybe, and never discouraged it. I could do whatever I felt big enough to do, with one minor restriction…whatever I did, it had to be done in a dress. I was his only girl and he wanted me to look like one, which to him meant no pants and no short hair. Those were for the boys. I don’t think it ever occurred to him how hard it would be to keep me decent in a dress and wild tangles under control while I climbed sign poles, raced bicycles, wrestled brothers and generally acted like the wild child I chose to be.
I suppose as a small child I didn’t mind, but as I got older, I balked at the restriction. I did not understand what I considered a totally unfair and ridiculous rule, since it slowed my adventures down considerably. I had to think of other ways to do things that kept my butt covered in the process. But no matter how many arguments I put up, no matter how many times I cried, cajoled, bargained or begged, he stuck to his guns. And for all my growing years, the reasoning was the same. “Baby, God gave me five boys and only one girl. I have room to make mistakes with the boys, I don’t with you. I have to do it right the first time. You may think it isn’t fair, but I would rather be safe than sorry, so…” Needless to say, he rarely acquiesced to my pleas. But he did it so sweetly, and I loved him so much, that most times I just accepted it and went with the flow. However, I can’t even begin to count the times I had to explain my “dresses all the time” fashion in an era where pants were the favored attire for girls my age. And I was a tomboy, surrounded by brothers, and encouraged to try anything they did, which didn’t help. I’ve no doubt my mom spent many hours trying to find enough culottes to keep my behind covered.
Thesignpaintersdaughter 