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GUEST COLUMN
Talk to your kid about being a weirdo An excerpt from “Mom Babble,” a new book by Southwest Florida mom and blogger Mary Katherine Backstrom
F
irst day of kindergarten was show-and-tell day at Blossomwood Elementary school, a sort of “get to know your class” activity. Letters went home to parents at the end of the summer, and kids returned to school carrying the most fascinating things. Turtles, dried-out beehives, summer camp T-shirts . . . every child had an object and every object had a story. That is, until a browneyed girl marched up to the front of the classroom empty-handed. The teacher seemed unsure, but the child smiled with excitement, so she shooed her along. Little feet stomped up cement block stairs to the center of the makeshift stage. She turned to face the classroom. And that is when five-year-old Mary Katherine pulled her hands out of her pockets and pointed straight down at her girly-parts. “Theeeeeeeese are my private parts!” (Then, pointing to the class) “Yooooooou cannot touch them!” (Hands now on hips) “If you do, I will scream. And then I will dial 9-1-
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1. … Thank you.” And with a curtsy, I hopped off the stage and headed back to my desk, beaming with satisfaction. The teacher handled things well, all things considered. After settling the classroom, she headed to the office and called my mother, laughing. “Let’s just say MK is not like her sister. She’s definitely . . . different.” Different. A label that stuck for the next twenty-five years.
In kindergarten I didn’t mind it
so much. All a kid really cares about at that age is pizza and playgrounds. But some time, right around sixth grade, that label started to hurt. I didn’t want to be different. I wanted to have shiny hair, an L.L.Bean jacket, and Express flare-cut jeans. I wanted to look and act like the popular girls in school. I wanted to blend in. To fit in. Because by the ripe old age of twelve, I had already discovered that sometimes being a standout means being a stand-alone. And standing alone can get pretty lonely. Well, my family couldn’t afford designer brands. So off to middle school I went, wearing combat boots and hand-medown clothes. I walked through the double doors, whispering my mantra to the universe: Different is cool. Different is cool. Different is cool.
By eighth grade, I had discovered pom-poms and popularity. I borrowed fancy clothes, rolled my hair, and smeared iridescent blue eyeshadow all over my eyelids. I was voted Best Dressed. I got myself a boyfriend. And at the pinnacle of it all, I managed to nab a lead role in the high school play.
