I will fully admit that, at the age of 34, I still like to remind my parents of their less than stellar moments they displayed during my formative years. Ok…I actually probably remind them about one or more of these things every time I see or talk to either of them for longer than an hour. Which, if you talk to them, they will GLEEFULLY TELL YOU THAT SEEING OR TALKING TO ME FOR LONGER THAN AN HOUR HAPPENS ABOUT AS OFTEN AS A SOLAR ECLIPSE. But that’s beside the point.
I would like to state, for the record, before I go on since I know that they both read this blog, that they were, on the whole, outstanding parents and I honestly couldn’t have asked for anyone better to raise me into the only slightly nutty human being you see before you today. So for that, I thank them.
Now I shall commence with my nit-picking.
I remember one time somewhat recently (in solar eclipse time), my Dad asked me if there was anything I could recall that I really disagreed with that he did in the way of parenting me when I was growing up.
I looked at him like he had a dancing aardvark on his head. Was he KIDDING ME? Was he ACTUALLY inviting me, with a great big neon lettered invitation, to remind him ONCE AGAIN, about the time that he wouldn’t let me be in the District Level Social Studies Project Fair?
“The Social Studies Fair thing, Dad.”, I said…without hesitating for one second.
He got the look of a cornered animal and nodded his head slowly in resignation and sudden remembrance of the fact that “Of COURSE she would bring this up. She ALWAYS brings this up.” I think he’d been wanting to have a philosophical, more generalized discussion about his parenting method – – one that could be put into a chapter of his own parental self-help book entitled “Things To Talk to Your 34 Year Old Daughter About that She Probably Already Talks About in Therapy” . But noooooo….I pulled out my bow and arrow and shot straight into the heart of my little 5th grade soul that was shattered most epically and dramatically when I was DISALLOWED my RIGHTFUL PLACE in the District Social Studies Fair by my Dad who was….apparently….trying to prove some sort of point about living up to my “commitments”.
WHATEVER, dude. Here’s how it went down, folks.
I made a project about the history of the American flag. So during one of my trips with the family to visit my grandmother, she and I worked together to sew this flag from scratch. I cut out all the fabric stars and stripes…and we hand-stitched some of it together, working side-by-side to finish the flag in time for my project. In addition to that, I made a little replica of a town with tiny little American flags glued to toothpick “poles” outside each of the buildings to represent the patriotism that each and every citizen of this great nation displays on a regular basis – – and I did this while singing “My Country ‘Tis of Thee” softly under my breath. As any patriotic 5th grader who’s proud of her country, proud of her project, and proud of her heritage would. (Ok…that last bit might be a liiiitttle bit over the top…but you get the picture. Excited American 5th Grader with Exciting American Project)
I also had to write a report to go along with the project. And apparently the report was lacking in some content according to my Dad’s opinion. He kept telling me to add some more to it and I said that I thought that it was enough. And obviously SOMEONE thought that what I wrote was enough because I won 1st Place in the school for my project in my category and 2nd place in the county. So that qualified me for the District Competition.
Well….Dad must have had big pie-in-the-sky Hollywood dreams for how far my little flag project could take me. ….and my report just wasn’t gonna cut it. He reminded me once again that I needed to add more substance to my report. So I did what any lazy, award-winning 5th grader would do…
I added a paragraph to the report.
I remember distinctly that when Dad saw the report, he went ballistic. I went ballistic. There was much crying and stomping and “BUT I *DID* DO WHAT YOU TOLD ME TO DO!!!” that ensued. It all ended in a bloody mess when Dad told me that I couldn’t be int he District Level Competition. He lay down the law, and it was final.
I threw my 10 year old body over my project in a heap of inconsolable tears. My life was….obviously, irrevocably ruined. How would I get discovered as the greatest social studies project…..person….of all time….NOW????
I recall having to get up from my desk the next day, and shuffle up to the front of the class and mumble to my teacher that I “couldn’t be in the fair”. She looked dumbfounded and just blinked at me. “Why???”, she said.
“B..b.b…because of my D..d…dad. H…he….won.nn’t…l..let me.”
She blinked again. And sadly told me she was sorry to hear that. I looked at her, bleary eyed with tears of unfairness, slowly nodded in agreement, and shuffled back to my desk.
And so ended my career as a Social Studies Fair Genius.
(Dad is currently rolling his eyes as I just dug that knife a little deeper into his proverbial heart for the two hundredth and seventy-fifth time. )
As bad as the Social Studies Fair Incident is, it’s nothing compared to The Cabbage Patch Kid Incident – – – but Dad is absolved of all wrong-doing on that one. Because that little award in wayward parenting goes to my mom.
When I was in the 3rd Grade, everyone who was ANYONE in my little world, had a Cabbage Patch Kid. And on that Christmas, there were record sales occurring in the form of actual, physical altercations at various toy stores across the land. Crazy-eyed mothers, who were carrying intricately laid out maps of the store that was their ultimate destination that day, complete with intricately drawn arrows outlaying their plan of attack to get to the Cabbage Patch Kids Shelf first, found themselves in lines the size of those one might find outside of a Rolling Stones concert. Except I suspect that the tattoo-clad, drunk-out-of -their- mind, Stones fans, would have been a lot more friendly than the mothers in these lines. These mothers would knock down anyone and anything…..man or beast….who got between them and one of these dolls.
My mother made it very, very…..VERY clear to me….that she would NOT be one of these mothers.
Ok…fine. Even at the age of 8, I understood that there were some limits to what a mother could or would do, in reasonable terms, to get a kid a doll.
But I had a secret plan…..and that plan was Santa Claus.
I was 8, so I was beginning to become suspicious of the whole Santa deal. It all seemed implausible to my inquiring little mind. I mean…we had a wood-burning stove that covered the entire opening of the chimney into our living room and, as a result, my parents had told me that Santa actually came in through the front door. But this, of course, caused me to worry about how Santa would know to do this – – what if he got stuck in the chimney, not knowing about the wood stove? Stuck in there with my toys? What if he started to smell like one of the squirrels that often died in the chimney and mom would say of the deceased squirrel, with a disgusted look on her face “serves it RIGHT.” To this day, my mother hates squirrels more than the Grim Reaper. My mom could be talking about puppies and bunnies and kitties with a look of angelic delight on her face, but the moment that a squirrel enters that furry mix, her eyes narrow, and a dark cloud crosses over her face as her upper lip curls into a sneer.
But I digress.
So as Christmas approached, I wrote my letter to Santa with a very large item at the top of it that read “CABBAGE PATCH DOLL”. (Though it was probably spelled more like “CABEGE PACH DOL”. My spelling was as bad as it was comedic at that time.) And I waited with anticipation, hoping that Santa could somehow swing a miracle for me. Because with the amount of eye-rolling that my mother was throwing around at the mere MENTION of the lines at the toy stores and the latest motherly altercation that had ended with a blackened eye, I knew that my chances of her getting me one for Christmas were next to nil. And my Dad didn’t even know what a Cabbage Patch Kid WAS….so I wasn’t getting help from that direction either.
The fateful day of Christmas morning arrived, and I anxiously galloped into the living room to see what Santa had brought me. Let’s see….some roller skates….and a cowboy hat and “Oh Look!” a game………and what’s this package over here? The package didn’t look like it was the shape of anything I’d had on my list that I wanted….so I gingerly began pulling off the wrapping paper with a puzzled expression.
The first thing I saw was a Cabbage Patch Kid Head. My heart skipped a beat – – what…..what was this? Could it be true??? Could Santa have come through for me????
But something was all wrong – – this was a much smaller box than what I knew Cabbage Patch kids came in. And as I ripped into it further….I saw all too clearly what the problem was.
I had received a pair of Cabbage Patch Kid earmuffs.
No….no. You don’t underSTAND. So let me say that one more time…
I RECEIVED A PAIR OF CABBAGE PATCH KID EARMUFFS.
As in, two …..decapitated….Cabbage Patch Kid heads that were attached to a plastic headband.
This had to be a cruel joke of some sort. But no….there they were….right in my hands. The soft little heads sneered up at me mockingly.
Mom had a camera up to her face, as per usual, and began coaxing me to “Put them on!!!”
I complied, but only because I was 8, and 8 year olds complied when their mothers told them to do something so they could take a photo, because they knew at that point that if they didn’t, then a Big Family Scene would ensue and it would all end in tears. And they would STILL have to have the photo taken but just with a tear-streaked, angry face.
As I sat there, completely dejected, with the sappy-faced balls of fabric gracing each of my ears, I tried to figure out where it all went wrong. I had SPECIFICALLY asked for a Cabbage Patch KID….not earmuffs. How could Santa DO this to me? This is like something my MOM would do to….
Hey….hang on a second. Mom. This is like something mom would do…..not Santa.
And at that very moment, I became more suspicious of this whole “Santa” business than I ever had been. I had evidence. I had the evidence sitting right on my head as Exhibit A and Exhibit B.
And so that was how it came to be that, when my friends brought all their Cabbage Patch Kids over to play with….I contributed my ear muffs to the group and, I think it goes without saying, that my earmuffs were not the most popular members of that little team of dolls. I think one time we pretended that one of my friend’s Cabbage Patch Kid gave birth to twins – – which were my ear muffs. But otherwise, the earmuffs pretty much just sat in a corner, as I glared at them accusingly, willing them to spontaneously burst into flames so I could beg my mother to get me a REAL Cabbage Patch Kid in one of the After-Christmas-Sales.
Make no mistake – – I laugh about these things with my parents now. Because it IS funny – – but I think they see there is a tiny pinprick of a grudge still held. And neither of them would, likely be surprised, if one day they find out I actually have a Cabbage Patch Kid stored in my closet and am currently working on a new, improved version of my Social Studies Project.
And the report that goes with it would…perhaps….if all of you are LUCKY….show up in this blog. With THREE additional paragraphs.
My burning question for you is did you actually have the Cabbage Patch Kids album, as pictured above? Because I did and it totally and utterly ROCKED. I still know the words to some of the songs.
“Sybil Sadie. I know what you mean. I felt the same way too. I want to get back home again, just as much as you. There’s no one here to guide us but we have the strength inside us. Sybil Sadie…oh, Ramey. I guess it’s up to you and me…”
Yes, I really did just go there.
And for the 467th time I will again say “I’m sorry!!!!” I will also explain for the 467th time that as a hard working teacher, when was I going to go to stand in the predawn lines to get these $100.00 dolls. In 1982 $100 was a ridiculouslly unbelievable price to pay for a DOLL! Also, you neglected to say that you did get a Cabbage Patch doll. There were plenty on the shelves the next year! You need to know that it makes my day when I find a new entry on this blog. I laugh til I cry over some of them. Whatever happened to those earmuffs?
Love, Mom
I laughed so hard when I read this from you, Mom, because I could HEAR you saying all of it. Yes, yes…I know you’re right. But as I’ve said before, I personally think you should have just not gotten me the doll that year AT ALL rather than subject me to the likes of decapitated Cabbage Patch Kid heads made into earmuffs. 😉
I knew this post would finally get you to make a comment though!
Amity: No, I can’t say that I ever had the Cabbage Patch Kids album….but I DID have Sesame Street Fever with the Sesame Street muppets on the front, posed like the BeeGees were on the Saturday Night Fever album. It. Was. So. Cool!
I’m sure I would have coveted your Cabbage Patch Kid album. And would have offered to let you borrow my earmuffs for a week if you were to let me borrow your album. An offer you would have declined. Trust me. 😉
when I saw the Cabbage Patch picture I knew exactly what was coming!
Amy – I, for one, would like to take this opportunity to personally express my profound GRATITUDE to both your mom and your dad for those events that traumatized your sweet li’l ol’ pea-pickin’ heart.
I do this, selfishly, however, because once again you and your freaky deaky mental attic have brought a tired old man nearly to the point of tears . . . not with sadness, mind you . . . but with laughter.
Well OMG!!! I went searching for this tonight Amy because I had dinner with MY mother who proceeded to tell me that she ran into YOUR mother at the grocery store tonight…boy doesn’t that sound like things that happened all the time when we were in school together, but anyways your mother told my mother about “the Cabbage patch doll blog” and how she was afraid to read it for the guilt she knew she would soon face….my mom actually told me, her words, “you know whats that thing called? the face thing?…well Amy wrote about not getting a doll. I proceeded to remind her that I NEVER got one either and I could totally relate to whatever childhood trauma that you went through by not getting one “that year” because I didn’t get one either. Although like you I did finally get one. Funny thing…I had two and now my 9 year old plays with them. Weird huh! But for some reason the doll head earmuffs are ringing a bell for me…did you keep those for a long time? Because that sounds familiar. But I just can’t remember. Anyways, I’ll have to copy and paste your letter and email it to my mom so she can read what you wrote. she will get a good laugh. Although the whole project thing that your dad did….that is pretty terrible and I’d still have issues with that as an adult…but you know, my dad hmmm. well lets just leave it at that. We love our parents regardless and being one now myself I have moments of insanity and I go back later and wonder what the Hell was I thinking when I did that or said that. We are not always rational and our brains are always on over drive trying to figure out how you are supposed to raise this little person to be the best they can be. so in his defense I totally understand irrational thought and actions when it comes to “teaching” a child lessons. Loved your story…makes me want to sleep with my blankie though and put on my wonder woman underoos. LOL
Amy,
I think a lawsuit is in order – the very idea of depriving you of a Cabbage Patch doll.
Ok, Ok, I’m sorry for the profound trauma the Great Unfair Fair incident obviously visited upon your 11 year old soul. But, it is good to see you are now over it.
Love,
Dad
Slath – – happy to amuse, once again. 😉
Shelly – – the power of the Montevallo gossip mill astounds me without fail! 😉 It seems that there are quite a few of us who were traumatized by the Cabbage Patch Kid stuff that year – – maybe we should form a support group?
Dad – – Yes, one of my better qualities is the ability to let things go in a timely fashion. 😉 And I accept your apology. Again.
hmmm who would have thought your dad was so fun…:) Hi Mr. Benson!!!!! A support group it is….I will organize our first candle light tell all…however you MUST bring the Margarita’s and I’ll bring the doritos…the ear muffs must be found though and brought to the meeting. We will throw chips at them and you can pour a drink on them.. maybe they will feel better about having no bodies…How is March 27th sound? LOL!!
I, for one, would be highly amused (at your expense, of course Amy) if your mother could find that snapshot of you in your disappointed-looking-earmuff-wearing state on that dreadful Christmas morning and have you post it for our viewing pleasure.
The bit about the earmuffs passing as a pair of twins was hilarious. And I don’t know what DAD was thinking — keeping you from winning that Rhodes Scholarship in Social Studies… we Dads have terrible misdirected thoughts sometimes. I’m sure he feels like a twit over it now–not because you’ve tormented him over it for years, but because he could never get you to see that his was the right decision, at least at the time.