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Remembering What
It Was Like to Be a Child Demands Effort
(By Stacy Jones, January 28, 2006) |
Children,
as they often remind us, can have an entirely different sense
of decorum than adults.
Take this last Christmas, for instance,
when Mike and I gave gifts to the children of the older of his
two sons. Each year it becomes increasingly difficult to know
what to buy for the twins, an eight-year-old boy and girl, as
their interests become more varied. Along with the toys we purchase
for them, we add a few practical items, including some items
of clothing.
Recalling how much I wanted Underoos
when I was a child, I thought a pair for each of the two kids
would make a desirable present. For those who don’t remember,
Underoos, advertised as “the underwear that’s fun to
wear,” hearken back to the 1970s. Essentially, the namesake
is a brand of youngsters’ underclothing—including a
t-shirt or tank top and underpants—usually decorated with
the latest superhero, the likes of Superman or Wonder Woman.
So we bought Underoos for Michael
and Danielle.
At our family gathering, the kids
opened gifts with great zest. They ripped into packages of video
games, dolls, and exciting toys that required batteries and flashed
with lights and made noises. Then they opened the packages containing
an outfit of clothing for each, a sweater and a pair of pants.
Last came the small, neatly wrapped package of Underoos.
Both had the same response. Their
mouths gaped, and they quickly hid the package of underwear behind
their backs. Not realizing my impending mistake, I said, “Show
everyone your Underoos.”
Both kept the packages tucked behind
their backs and gave me a simultaneous, resounding, “No!”
Neither eight-year-old was willing to parade his or her underpants
in front of the entire family.
I tried to tell myself that at
eight, I would have been different. But I can’t say for
sure. Maybe I would have been just as embarrassed to show a roomful
of aunts, uncles, and cousins my new underclothes.
I do remember telling myself when
I grew up, I would be sure not to forget what it was like to
be a child. Most of the time, I reassured myself of this responsibility
when my parents did something with which I didn’t agree—didn’t
allow me to have something I wanted, or made me do something
I didn’t want to do. The worst, of course, was always when
my parents embarrassed me in front of others by saying or doing
something I didn’t want them to do. Like giving underwear
for Christmas, I suppose.
I vowed never to become like my
parents or any other adult who had no idea what it was like to
be a child. Of course, at that time, I never realized two important
truths: my parents themselves had once been children, and they
weren’t imposing rules on me or embarrassing me in public
because they didn’t love me and want the best for me—just
the opposite.
This week while brushing my teeth,
I was reminded of another important principle of childhood decorum:
how difficult it is to be a child trying to fit in amidst other
children.
During most of my early elementary
school years, from kindergarten until about third grade, a dental
hygienist, Ms. Camille, visited our classroom once a month. Each
time she came, she gave us toothbrushes and instructed us on
how to brush our teeth: small meticulous circles on the inside
and outside of the teeth and a rough back-forth motion on top.
“Like a choo-choo train,” she would say, utilizing
a simile we could both hear and visualize.
She also brought paper cups and
fluoride for us to swish around in our mouths. To get permission
to participate in this activity, we were given slips of paper
days before Ms. Camille’s arrival, requiring us to take
them home and have them signed by our parents.
I always took the notes home, got
them signed, and brought them back. I didn’t mind taking
the fluoride. The color was a bright red like Kool-Aid, and it
tasted pleasant enough, and—even better—we got to step
outside to spit, a pleasant diversion from the fluorescent confines
of the classroom.
But I had another reason for taking
the fluoride that I did not reveal to my friends. I had plenty
of older family members who hadn’t cared properly for their
teeth over the years and so wore false teeth, some of whom went
without dentures in public—not an appealing sight.
Therefore, I had a good suspicion
that taking the fluoride rinse might be beneficial—maybe
if I took care of my teeth, like the hygienist told us, I would
never lose them. But I never told any of my friends. Actually
admitting as a child that you were aware of such benefits and
wanted to do something such as that might be the kiss of death
among one’s peers. It would certainly merit some good-natured
ribbing, so I pretended I didn’t like the fluoride. I pretended
it was just another inane requirement imposed on me by my parents.
Thankfully, my suspicions turned
out to be right. After years of fluoride treatments and numerous
checkups at the dentist, my teeth are in good shape, and I hope
to keep them that way for many more years. No dentures or exposed
gums in public for me yet, I’m happy to say.
(Stacy Jones, a Southerner and
child at heart, is a Master of Fine Arts student in fiction writing
at The University of Memphis. She is a native of Guys, Tenn.,
and her columns, which appear on Saturdays, are archived at Southern-Drawl.com.) |
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