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E D I T O R ' S_N O T E

Look for excerpts from Anne Lamott's new book, "Traveling Mercies," on Fridays; Word by Word, Lamott's biweekly Thursday column, will return March 4.

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T A B L E_T A L K

Sick of being sneered at by those childless people with attitudes? Fightback in theMothers area of Table Talk

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Search barnesandnoble.comfor books about parenting and the family
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R E C E N T L Y

Better ead than uck
By Polly Shulman
New ABC books are breathing life into an old genre by making letters vanish, get lost and pop up in unexpected places
(01/20/99)

The bento chronicles
By Jane Singer
An expatriate mom in Japan learns that a dewhiskered Hello Kitty rice ball in her child's lunch could forever condemn her as a rotten mother
(01/19/99)

Great expectations
By Joanna Scott
Faced with the cruel suspense of an endangered pregnancy, a novelist found that her greatest comfort came from hearing stories, especially the scary ones
(01/18/99)

That one ridiculous palm
By Anne Lamott
Of Catholic friends, atheist parents and the lily pads of faith
(01/15/99)

Second Thoughts: Earning credit in the straight world
By Sallie Tisdale
Twelve years after he graduated, Michael Backman lied his way backinto high school because he wanted to try again -- not atschool, but at everything wrong that followed
(01/14/99)

BROWSE THE MOTHERS WHO THINK FEATURE ARCHIVES

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Mamafesto
By Camille Peri
Why it's time
for Mothers Who Think

GIRLY GIRL | PAGE 1, 2
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I built forts. I skateboarded. I wore shorts under my skirts and competed on the field ruthlessly. I grew tough. As it turned out, I was not half bad at being a boy; I was stocky and coordinated like my brothers, so athletics came naturally to me. In the sixth grade, when I took first place in the girls pentathlon competition for the entire school, I was happy because I won, of course. But the main reason I was happy was because I'd proved myself, shown that I was not just a girl in a training bra and pleated pastel skirts, but something superior.

The result of all this sex-role imitating is that I felt better, stronger and more competent, less vulnerable to my brothers' taunts and insults. They could even criticize my muscular calves and I wouldn't crack, wouldn't break down like some sleep-deprived torture victim. I might scream that they were assholes, but that was acceptable -- that was anger. My sensitive side still lurked underneath, but now it was more of a low-key hum than a deafening roar. My emotions were under control.

Having grown up with boys, when it came time for me to have a child, I wanted desperately to have a girl. Someone like me on the surface, but perhaps different under the skin. I never gave much thought as to what kind of girl she might be. Shy, outgoing, difficult, artistic, funny, smart -- I honestly thought it didn't matter. I would treasure her no matter who she was, I was certain, and give her the emotional support and validation I never had. It was hopelessly banal, but I saw having a daughter as a chance to redeem the past. I can see now that I was fooling myself. I not only cared about my daughter's emotional make-up, I cared deeply about it.

When my daughter was born, I felt like the little girl on Christmas morning who tears open the pretty paper to at last find the present she's always wanted. Blessed, thrilled, grateful beyond words. I loved her madly, instantly. "You finally got the girl you wanted," my childhood friend Theresa said knowingly.

It didn't take long to figure out the person my daughter was. Wise, inquisitive, nurturing and feminine. A girly girl who loved jewelry, dresses, Barbies and all things pink. A child who would break her cookie in two, then hold out the bigger piece to you in her small hand. Perhaps the quality that struck me most was how self-reliant and independent she was. By the time she was crawling, pulling herself up on the bookshelves in the family room, you could leave her with some blocks, a few squeaky toys and board books, and she'd play by herself for hours. By the time she was 2, she could speak only a handful of words, but she would pick out her clothes and try to wiggle them on. And not stripes mixed with prints, mind you, or clashing colors, but outfits that actually matched! After producing an earlier male child who showed no interest in personal hygiene, much less fashion, this was a revelation.

But I was also observing something else about my daughter. She was as delicate as a baby bird. She not only cried, but she cried easily and a lot. If you spoke with the slightest edge in your voice, she cried. If she fell down or got a scratch, she cried. If she woke up in the middle of the night and found herself alone, which she invariably was since we declined to invite our kids to sleep in our bed, she cried until you picked her up and even then she was often inconsolable. I spent the early morning hours of my 40th birthday driving her around on the Glendale and Ventura freeways because she was sobbing, keeping everyone awake. Thank God she had a brother who adored her and was sweet with her, or she might not have lived to see preschool.

Needless to say, all this crying was a bit wearying. At first I assumed it bothered me simply because of the noise, or the need to so often bandage her fragile spirit. But gradually I realized my irritation was due to something deeper and more upsetting: a reluctance to accept that she was like me, the little girl who once got so easily hurt. When I realized this my eyes filled with tears.

Almost 6, she is most prone now to being wounded by her peers. A few weeks ago, she attended her first slumber party. When I arrived to pick her up, she was playing a board game with three other girls and broke down in frustration when her friend Lucia unwittingly went ahead of her. "It was my turn! It was my turn!" she wailed, hitting her knees with her fists. "Not again!" muttered one little girl -- in an all-too-familiar tone -- as she glanced at my daughter.

The truth is I can't bear to see my daughter going through childhood as I did, suffering from too gentle and loving a heart. The world has precious little space for people like her, and I worry I will not be able to be the patient, wise mother she needs. "Kate loves to be responsible and to be helpful," wrote my daughter's insightful kindergarten teacher in her report card. "I've enjoyed watching her grow and mature. Keep encouraging her to keep her head up high."

But my daughter has no choice about who she is. And thankfully, neither do I. One afternoon a few months back we were over at her grandparents' house. My quiet father-in-law, who's 78, was sitting on the couch watching an NBA playoff game between the Bulls and the Jazz. He has diabetes, and my husband made a remark that his father wasn't feeling particularly well that day. The next minute my daughter got up from her chair and snuggled up next to him, placing her hand protectively on his knee. "Who do you want to win, Papa?" she asked. I have rarely seen a grown man look happier.

I know I still have a long way to go. But she has softened me too, broken through my hard outer shell. Over time, we've evolved a bedtime ritual that goes something like this. After bath and a story, we talk for a few moments, then she takes my face in her hands. "I always wanted to have a mother like you," she says, her large blue eyes gazing into mine. Then it's my turn.

"I always wanted to have a daughter like you," I say.
SALON | Jan. 21, 1999

Mona Gable's last story for Salon was Sex and the 7-year-old boy, which will be included in "Mothers Who Think: Tales of Real-Life Parenthood" edited by Camille Peri and Kate Moses, available in May from Villard Books.