How is it that I came from a home where my parents never read me a book, didn't notice when I played on a partially frozen pond or fell down the basement stairs, and didn't take me to the dentist for the first time until I was twelve, yet I ended up as a parent who stays up at night worrying about off-gassing toys and pesticides in food?
I recently was contacted via Facebook by my childhood neighbor, Libby. Libby was the embodiment of a wholesome midwest childhood. Her father worked for the Department of Natural Resources - a masculine, outdoorsy job. Her mother stayed home and took care of Libby. Her older brother Chucky was dorky and obnoxious, which added just the right amount of imperfection to the family to make it believable.
Libby was a sweet girl - quiet and kind and clean. Libby had sandy-blonde hair and freckles. Libby's family went cross-country skiing together. They had a purebred Springer Spaniel hunting dog with a nice, clean, new kennel. Libby's dad built her a tree-house in her backyard.
My younger sister and brother and I were a small tousled mob of children who lived next door. Our dog was a German Shepherd mix that ran loose most of the time, occasionally threatening the neighborhood boys who teased us. My dad walked around drinking cheap beer from a can and yelling profanities.
Libby's mom didn't relish her daughter playing with us. But at one point Libby told us that her mom liked that we were "creative," because she thought that would be good for Libby.
We were creative because our parents didn't buy us things and they didn't entertain us, so we had to use our imaginations. We made up games like "Squiggle," where one of us would draw a random squiggle and then the other one would need to make it into something distinguishable - maybe an elephant or a snake or a tree. We made up card games. We played charades. We even created and built our own board games, with game pieces and rules (the making of the games was fun, the playing of the games - not so much). For Christmas, we made each other gifts - occasionally very strange things. I remember sewing a fried egg for my sister and a stuffed "candy bar" for my brother. We wrote silly stories and bad poetry.
Libby's house was full of wonderful toys. She had several Barbie dolls, Barbie houses full of Barbie furniture, and a whole wardrobe of fashionable Barbie attire. My sister and I felt lucky that we each had one Barbie. Each doll had come with one outfit, of which we had long ago lost the shoes. When our Barbies wanted to go out on the town, we made their outfits. Out of socks, of course. Just a few creative snips for head and arm-holes, a strip of fabric for a belt, and "waa-laa," Barbie was red-carpet-ready. Or maybe red-neck-ready would be more accurate, since our Barbie was barefoot and we generally only had white cotton athletic socks to choose from for her dresses.
Hearing from Libby after all these years brought back many fond memories. Libby looks and acts (from what I can tell from our Facebook interactions) just like a grown-up version of the sweet, kind, girl-next-door that I remember. She is a lawyer now and a mother of two children - a boy and a girl. She lives 45 minutes away from the town where we grew up.
How different am I from my childhood-self? Maybe not very. The way I parent is certainly different than the way I was parented. I spend a large part of my brain-power thinking about my children's happiness, safety, health, and future. My parents didn't have the time or energy or inclination to focus on their kids.
But I do value the opportunities for creativity that I was given as a child, and I don't buy many new toys for my kids. When I watch my son pretending that his toy train is a snowmobile or his hat is a fishing net or just playing "Monster" (a game which, as far as I can tell, involves yelling "monster" and then screaming and running around in circles), I feel like I'm doing something right. I guess I've got my parents to thank for that.
