Like a Virgin

I was eight years old when I learned about the "birds and bees."

It was a sunny afternoon, I had just dropped my backpack down at the front door and went straight to the kitchen for a snack. My mom was in there getting some stuff ready for dinner, I could hear my little sister in the back room playing with her dolls.

"Mom, what's a 'virgin'?"

She looked up from the stove at me with wide-eyes and then slowly narrowed them, spatula in the air. Her shoulders slumped and she said, "Give me just a minute here and we'll talk about that. Where did you hear that word?"

"I was at Bible Class today and they kept talking about 'The Virgin Mary'. Why did they call her a 'virgin'? ... Oh and I heard it on a T.V. show the other day too, but that time they were talking about a guy at their school."

She quietly finished making dinner, set it to the side to stay warm and told me to come sit on the couch in the living room. She brought a pencil and a pad of paper with her. Man, she meant business. This was not going to be any explanation.

Curiously I looked at her as I sat down, feeling a bit apprehensive at her seriousness.

A few diagrams later she had thoroughly explained the female reproductive system, the male reproductive system and how they delicately worked together to make a baby. Following that was a stern lecture about how this process was meant by God to be an act between a husband and wife that loved each other.

And then she began to cry.

Tell an eight-year-old little girl that a penis goes in a vagina to make a baby and THEN start crying... and you have pretty much engraved the moment into her mind forever. And possibly scared the living day lights out of her.

The reason for the tears was soon explained. My mother put her hand on my shoulder as tears streamed down her face and said that sometimes people who weren't married fell in love and made babies. That it was NEVER a mistake, it just wasn't the way God intended it and made it much harder for everyone involved.

A light bulb began to go off in my head. I realized that most kids probably don't remember their parent's wedding day like I did. I remember it because I was 3 years old on that day. And the man I now called "Daddy" didn't actually meet me until I was old enough to know I was the only kid in nursery school that didn't have a daddy.
I looked at my mom and I started to cry too. "Who is my daddy?"

She hugged me and told me that someday when I was old enough to know, she would tell me more, and if I wanted to meet him, that she would be okay with it. For now, my Daddy was the man that came to every school program, that took us to the zoo, and who was the only person I wanted when I fell off my bike and skinned my knee. She said that making a baby didn't make you a daddy... loving a child like they were your own did.

Finally I sighed and wiped my tears, looked back down at the drawing my mother had made me. An hour or so had passed since I had gotten home from school. From the drawings I looked back at my mothers face, eyes rimmed red with tears, but with a soft smile on her face.

"But, I still don't know what 'virgin' means."

At that, my mother started laughing and so did I.

Blackberries & Big Wheels

We use to pick blackberries together, her and I. I didn't like blackberries, but it was fun picking them along the railroad tracks beside our apartment complex. Our fingers would be stained deep purple, her tongue and lips would match. I still like rasberries better.

She had chubby cheeks and the sweetest smile. Made even sweeter by the silver caps in the front. You never see kids with silver caps anymore... I guess they use something else now? We weren't suppose to walk by the railroad tracks, but my mom didn't seem to be around much during the day when we were out playing. As long as we were home by the time the street lights came on, we were free to play at our own pleasure. (Not something we as parents have the luxury of doing today).

"Mandy, you want to play Barbies with me?"

Sigh.

Faintly I was tempted to go play my favorite game with my little sister, but then again, I was 10 now. I was too old for Barbies.

"Let's play Flashdance instead"

"No, you always hog the living room floor"

We would bicker back and forth like this all the time. We didn't really have anyone else to play with, but with five years age difference between us, there was little choice. We were stuck together. Most of the time I was annoyed by her constant presence. Sometimes I was grateful to not be alone.

Especially late at night. In the dark.

Or when I came home from school and my mom was crying in a corner. Overwhelmed by life and betrayal. I'd take my sister's hand and we would go outside into a world of make believe. Where we could be anything we wanted and go wherever our imaginations could take us. Far away from being poor and sad.

I use to hold her down, pinning her arms under my knees, straddling her and tickling her until she nearly peed her pants. She would squeal. I loved the feeling of power and dominance I had. Sad, but oh so true. Little did I know she would grow up to be about 5 inches taller than me. I wouldn't attempt that trick now, I assure you.
But I was fiercly loyal and protective as well. One day, two little nieghborhood girls yanked my sweet little sister from her big wheel bike by the hair of her head. I was sitting on the top of the stairs playing when I witnessed this. I ran down them two at a time and yanked one of the little girls off the bike by her pigtails and grabbed the other one by the hand and told them to never touch my sister or her things again or I'd make them very very sorry they did.

They ran away crying. Straight to their mom. About 15 minutes later, a very large woman with over-bleached blond hair and blood-red finger nails grabbed me by the arm and started yelling at me about being a role model and not bullying little babies (ha, her "babies" were the biggest bullies in our apartment complex). I christened her "Bleachy Mama."

She had the intended effect though. She scared the crap outta me. I ran home and told my mother what happened.

The next chain of events will be forever carved into my memory. My 95 pound (if that) mom grabbed a baseball bat from our toy box and stomped down our stairs towards Bleachy Mama's apartment, with me and my sister following at her tail.

Banging on the door with the bat (nice one Mom!) she had the fiercest look in her eye (don't mess with a Mama Bear's cubs). I don't remember my mother's exact words to Bleachy Mama, but it was somewhere along the lines of "don't touch or talk to my daughters again or I'll kick your fat ass". Actually I am pretty sure those were her exact words.

The two little girls stood behind there mama with wide eyes. I am sure we had a similiar look on our faces as this all transpired. Then Bleachy slammed the door in my mom's face and we went home.

Funny thing is, about 3 months later... we were all best friends, picking blackberries together by the railroad tracks. I ended up teaching one of those little girls how to dance to my Cyndi Lauper tape I dubbed off the radio. They never asked to ride my sister's big wheel and I don't ever remember seeing Bleachy Mama again.