This morning started like many others, with Mimi sitting straight up in bed an spouting something completely random. Today it was, “Boys don’t wear shirts to swim!” I imagine it comes from careful observation during swim class. As soon as she notes that it is unfair that men have this freedom and American women don’t, we’ll talk.
Within a few minutes, though, the house fills with this: “Booty!” “Butt!” “Bottom!” She dances around her room shouting them like some perversely simple code. We blame it on school, of course, this first foray into the forbidden delights of “bad words.” I am sure that there are larger values at play, probably a healthy dose of debutante training tossed in (AGAIN with the debutante reference. I really do not know what that is about.), but the short answer here is that I just don’t like hearing “booty” or “butt” drop out of that pretty pink rosebud of a mouth.
At least not yet. I do not subscribe to the position that bad language is the hallmark of a limited vocabulary or a lack of imagination. Some of the best cussers I know also have the largest, most florid vocabularies. And I don’t think language belongs to one gender or the other, although I do think that masculinity and femininity are informed by the words we use. And I really really really am not the type to say “the ‘f’ word” or what-have-you. If I want to say “fuck” I’ll say “fuck” and if I’m not comfortable saying it in a given social setting then I won’t say it. I really do hope I’m never in a setting in which I feel compelled to say “fuck” to my daughter, although I’ve heard my own mother drop it once or twice and I admit it achieved an effect.
There’s absolutely no way butt/booty/bottom won’t have a role in the language of our house, as we are still wrestling somewhat with potty training — STILL — and she has a rash that likes to flare up if I forget to put cream on her bottom under her bathing suit. Plus she’s at that developmental place where all parts of the body are equal, which is a delight, yet she’s discovering that there’s something about certain parts of the body that just might make people blanch, which isn’t so delightful. I have been glad to learn that, like most 3-year-olds, she soon tires of that which doesn’t get attention so ignoring is still my best weapon, but somehow this butt/booty/bottom routine has become a Thing. Not a Big Thing, a very Small Thing, but a Thing.
My sister Dawn uses the word “buttocks,” and you cannot convince me that that word can be said consistently without it sounding silly. Especially if you say it like she does: butt-ocks. I suppose we should count ourselves lucky that Mimi has not caught onto “ass” yet. That’s a word I don’t like at all, for reasons more related to how it sounds than anything else: like the word “puke” makes me turn green yet its cousin “barf” bounces right off of me. I also don’t like the word “vehicle,” but that’s probably because where I come from it’s always pronounced “ve-hic-le” and accompanied by a wad of chew. Some of my favorite words are “popcorn,” “church,” and ‘muffin,” because they’re just so much fun to say.
Right now my daughter’s favorite word is “booty.” Sigh. She’s made up a song with lyrics like, “Daddies say butt! Mommies say bottom! Boys say booty!” Which leads me to believe she’s already figured out the I-can-say-it-but-not-get-in-trouble-if-it’s-a-quote” defense. Double sigh. An here we go.
Filed under: Southern debs
This is me, 20 years ago. I guess this particular BlogHop caught my eye because today is my birthday. So I’d love to play… who doesn’t welcome a few extra visitors on her birthday? Anyway, I’ve never really minded birthdays, but I don’t love them, either. I do remember when I was a kid and an older neighbor turned 10 I was jealous because she was in the double digits. That doesn’t do much for me anymore: I’m not exactly itching to hit triple digits, although it does beat the alternative.
In this picture I am preparing for the local junior miss pageant, which I ended up not entering anyway, because the competition conflicted with a ballet recital. I don’t remember why I made the choice I did; I guess I decided to go with the sure thing. I do remember this day, the blue screen in the backdrop, the little black stool we perched on. I think the expression I was going for was wistful. I’m not sure why I wanted to be in a pageant, maybe it was the debutante thing — I already owned the dress, as it were. I do know my teenage identity was a mess: I wanted to be pretty so that I could lament not being smart, and I wanted to be smart so I could worry about not being pretty. I remember desperately hoping the photographer would say something, offer me a Lana-Turner-at-Schwab’s moment. He didn’t, of course, and life went on.
As for the white dress, well, see above debutante reference. In the south, you can’t miss by going for the virginal. And notice the pearls? Not a touch of irony there. 
Slowly but surely I’m seeing recognizable glimpses of myself in Mimi. My gestures, my postures, my facial expressions, and, heaven forbid, my style. If you look closely here, you can see that she’s set the table with candles (two, from the birthday candle stash), a coaster (under my Cubbies mug), placemats (these are from my hometown), and cloth napkins (Always. Really. My mom, too. Blame her.) I can’t really explain the gargantuan mixing bowls, the Lincoln logs, or the puzzle pieces; I was fixing stew and I guess she was hungry.
If you’ve never thought much about your table-setting style, then you are not from the south. At least not the same cult as me. Martha didn’t invent this. I know my mother got the ball rolling, but I also remember practicing at the debutantes’ deportment classes, held every Saturday morning at the home of the junior leaguer responsible for educating the 18-year-olds. [Quick aside: Why don't debutantes go to orgies? Too many thank-you notes to write.] This woman’s name was, I kid you not, Rhett. Of course that was her first name, and in my neck of the woods women were “Miz Smith” or “Ma’am,” so I’m sure I didn’t hear her name until years later.
Last night after Jon pointed out the strange concoction Mimi threw together on our table I actually took a good look. It’s the kind of thing, like wearing socks with your sneakers or rolling up the toothpaste tube that after a while you’ve just done it or not done it for so long that you tend to proceed on autopilot. But, curious now, I turned to the Internet, my source for all knowledge (true or otherwise), and was amazed to discover that not everyone sets their tables with cloth napkins, coasters, placemats, and candles.
So if you should venture to the southwest, wander around the playgrounds, and meet a group of three-year-olds, Mimi? Will be the one who curtseys.
