Mama’s Girl

Most kids, growing up, try to please their parents. If one parent isn’t around much, the effort naturally shifts to the one who is.

That’s where things can take an interesting turn. In my case, the constant presence was my mother. My father worked two jobs and most weekends to support the family. He was gone so often that one of my earliest memories is wondering who this “visitor” was when he happened to be home.

With Dad largely out of the picture, my attention—and approval-seeking—focused squarely on Mom. That’s how a boy becomes what people call a “Mama’s boy.” Add a few other variables—temperament, environment, maybe even a dash of biology—and you get something a little different.

In my case, a “Mama’s girl.”

My younger sister arrived just a year after I did. While Mom was clearly raising her as a girl, there wasn’t much effort to steer me in the opposite direction. I simply drifted alongside her, a willing passenger on what I’ve come to think of as the good ship Lollipop.

I remember one small but telling moment. Mom sewed an apron for my sister. I was instantly jealous. Without hesitation, she made one for me, too. No questions asked.

Then there was my brief ambition to become a circus clown. Lacking proper supplies, I improvised—covering my face with Mom’s cold cream to create a clown’s “white face.” When I proudly presented myself, she interpreted my effort a bit differently. Instead of a clown, she saw something closer to a little girl experimenting with makeup. She wiped off the cold cream and, this time with intention, made up my face properly.

Looking back, I don’t think she set out to encourage anything in particular. But she didn’t discourage it, either. If anything, her comments nudged things along. She’d remark on my “nice legs,” how I walked on my “tippy-toes,” as if I were made for high heels.

More than once, she said, almost casually, “You should have been a girl.”

It’s funny what sticks with you.

And so it goes.

Wearing SER.O.YA

Hanns Lothar femulating in the 1961 film One, Two, Three.

While not a great femulation, this 12-year-old was impressed when I saw this film in the early 1960s because it was the first time I saw a man dressing as a woman in a contemporary outfit.