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| Just call me Mom |
We went to a party the other night where we were asked to
wear nametags because a few newcomers would be joining us. That didn’t actually
happen—apparently they had something more fun to do. Or maybe it was some other
reason.
There was a little addendum to the nametag thing. We had to
write our name, and what we wanted to
be when we grew up, as dreamed in third grade.
Many of the attendees were, how shall I say it? past middle
age. Back when I was a third-grader, little girls were not expected to have a
career. Oh, if we wanted to do something before we settled down to our real destiny
of cooking, cleaning, and laundry, all the while making and raising babies,
maybe we could dabble in nursing or teaching for a few years. Those were pretty
much the open careers for females. By the time we got to high school we were
actually encouraged to think beyond home and babies, but back in third grade?
No.
All that to explain the responses. The men wrote things like
explorer, scuba diver (remember the old TV series Sea Hunt?), cowboy, ball
player, farmer, vet, etc. One woman wrote horse trainer and another listed nurse, but
many of the women had a problem coming up with anything. One woman wrote “I
don’t remember that far back,” another wrote “horse” (do you remember those
girls who galloped around the playground and whinnied?), and one wrote, “a
boy.” Yes, she wanted to be a boy when she grew up. Well, no wonder! Boys were
going to be explorers and scuba divers and ball players and cowboys.
What about me? In grade school I attended a small Catholic
school. I remember in second grade all the other girls said they wanted to be
nuns. And I’m sure there was no pressure on anyone to choose that path, right?
But even at that age I knew I wanted a family someday, and nuns were not
allowed to have children. So at the party the other night, my nametag said “Valerie—Mom.”
I achieved my dream.
What about you? What did you dream of being? And no
cheating, like my husband. He ignored the “in third grade” instruction and
wrote “party animal” on his nametag. I promptly shredded it and made him try
again.
And no, he never did learn to scuba dive.
i wanted to be a journalist.
ReplyDeleteAnd look at you! A writer!
DeleteI started drawing on the little sheets of cardboard the cleaners put inside freshly laundered shirts when I was just a little thing, and everyone (in my family) raved about how great I was. Naturally, I loved the praise, so I decided then and there I was to become an artist. I majored in art in high school and college, and worked at it in the service as well. Later, I found I wasn't so good after all, so I got a job in government.
ReplyDeleteAww, that's sad. Kind of like my career in piano playing. Took three years of lessons before I figured out I wasn't ever going to play professionally.
DeleteThe only thing I wanted in the 3rd grade was to stay away from Sister Rosetta Stone and her lightening fast ruler. (And they wondered why my cursive was bad.) As far as what I'm going to be when I grow up, I've decided not to. It's far easier and you can't ruin anyone's expectations.
ReplyDeleteHa! We had Sister Ricardo who used to pinch cheeks--painfully--and Sister Phelem who got great joy out of paddling kids. They travel incognito now but I used to panic whenever I saw one of those black and white habits.
DeleteI guess I'm new to your blog notification list. Never knew you've had a blog going since 2009. Keep me on the list; you're good. But get rid of that stupid scrambled-letters requirement for comments. I'll be looking forward to reading more of your posts.
ReplyDeleteI'll check into the scrambled letters thing. Not sure I can omit it. It's supposed to keep robots and spammers from terrorizing my blog. So far, so good.
DeleteThird grade??? I only remember I didn't want to be a big sister to my brother that was born that year. I was no longer the baby of the family. I guess I was learning how to be self centered!
ReplyDeleteSheesh--by third grade I had three or four younger siblings, along with the three older brothers. I wasn't self-centered--just in the center. (Middle child syndrome.)
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