Redheaded

I was not what my mother wanted. She wanted a little girl, her little girl. So she made me do the things she was denied, due to poverty, too many siblings, not enough safety.

She was given red, high-top sneakers from the dole. She hated them, but they were the only shoes she would get. I was put in solid leather shoes, hard soled, and although certainly in part because of my turned-in-feet issues, just as certainly in part because they were not sneakers. I had sneakers, for play, sometimes, when I was a bit older. I'd have loved those red high-tops.

She wore hand-me-downs, often in dark colors, cut down from adult clothes, cast-offs. She loved pastels and ruffles, lace and embroidery. While I wore some hand-me-downs, as rarely came my way, with only older brothers, mostly she made my clothes or I got new from the store. The late 60s, early 70s were not a good time for a modest child, who loved black and dark purple, to have to rely on cheap clothes, and mom was a decent seamstress. Too bad about the double-knit fabric, but sometimes she used cotton. And at school I wore uniforms - which she also made. I had no issue with shabby clothing, preferred older styles. She often apologized about her poor sewing, not as good as her mother's. I never understood that.

She rarely got milk, which she loved. She made me drink a full glass of whole milk at every meal. I gagged on the stuff, and I'm sure that was part of why I had such an irritable gut. She hated vegetables, and would not buy anything green that was not in a can. Potatoes and corn were the only vegetation I knew, and disgusting canned lima beans. I knew from Aunt Alma's feeding me that I loved spinach, fresh or frozen. My mother would not even try. She never needed to eat vegetables. The obesity and yo-yo dieting were unrelated. She never ate much, but none of it was fresh, or green.

She hated her red hair, kept it short, permed, curled. Cut my hair, resisted my constant struggle to let me keep it long. Had me perm my hair in high school, and 'treated' me to more perming in college. My hair was a constant source of commentary, good color, but why was I doing THAT with it? Whatever that was.

I imagine myself now, talking to her little girl, giving her my glass of milk, giving her a fluffy Shirley Temple dress, including those shoes. And brushing her hair (I can't remember ever stroking my mother's red hair, it was so often in curlers, or not to be mussed with because we were going out.) I'd admire the color, how beautiful, just as it was. I never got why she hated it so.



This dress, so short, so … ugh, gives me nightmares.

I haven't quite gotten to the resolution here, but I'm sure compassion for her small, wounded heart, is the right direction. I don't think, if we could meet both as children the same age, we would like each other. Not hate, but a distinct disinterest. No common ground. For a woman who so craved her own little girl, that must've been heartbreaking, in ways she couldn't understand, or couldn't admit, even to herself.

It is all to grieve for.