Rage Between the Lines

More than sixteen years ago, when my first grandchild was born, my aunt gave me a guided journal called Grandmother's Journal: Memories and Keepsakes for My Grandchild. She though that it was something every grandmother should leave behind.

 So I put it in a drawer.

 Not because I didn’t like the idea. Quite the opposite.

 The truth was that I never really had the chance to make many of the memories the book wanted me to write about.

As is often the case, I was the paternal grandmother. The maternal grandparents got most of the time, most of the holidays, most of the sleepovers, most of the ordinary Tuesdays that eventually become cherished memories.

Me? Birthdays. Christmas. The occasional visit.

I’m not bitter.

 No. Not me.

 So the book sat untouched for more than a decade. The other day, I pulled it out.

 As much as I hate to admit it, I feel like I’m hurtling toward that white light, so I realized that if I didn’t write in it now, I might never get the chance.

 What I didn’t expect was that this innocent little keepsake journal would turn into therapy…without the copay.

Many of the prompts ask things like:

“What games did you play with your grandchildren?”

“Where did you like to take them?”

“What traditions did you share?”

 I couldn’t answer those questions honestly because they simply never happened.

So I decided to answer a different question.

What would I have done if I’d been given the chance?

 In many ways, the journal has become less about preserving memories and more about telling my side of the story.

Then came the question that absolutely blindsided me.

“What toys did you play with as a child?”

 Seems harmless enough, doesn’t it?

 Oh, no.

 That one question unleashed a volcano.

 I loved Barbie.

She had only been around about five years when I was born, and she was the doll to have.

Now, I was already the neighborhood oddity. I was the only Protestant in an otherwise Catholic neighborhood. I was the only only child surrounded by families with three, four, and five kids.

 So naturally my mother bought me…the short-haired Barbie.

Not the glamorous ponytail Barbie every little girl wanted.

The short-haired one.

 Thanks, Mom.

 Nothing says, “Let’s help this child fit in,” quite like making sure her Barbie was different too.

 What I really wanted, though, wasn’t Barbie at all. I wanted a Ginny doll. Every Christmas. Every birthday.

 Every occasion that remotely involved gift-giving.

 I asked.

 And asked.

 And asked.

I never got one.

 To this day I have absolutely no idea why.

 Perhaps it was an early lesson that life isn’t fair. If so, mission accomplished.

 Every Christmas we went to my Aunt Lois and Uncle Charles’s house for dinner. My cousins, Mary and Jane, always had their beloved Ginny dolls. They’d happily play together while I watched.

 I wasn’t allowed to bring my own toys.

 So there I sat.

 Watching.

 Meanwhile, Aunt Lois faithfully gave me the exact same Christmas gift every single year.

 A blouse.

 A blouse.

 Not a toy.

 Not a game.

 Not even a book.

 A Bobbie Brooks blouse.

 If you’re old enough to remember Bobbie Brooks, you know exactly what I’m talking about.

 I’d sit there holding that shirt box in my lap while Mary and Jane played with their dolls.

The blouse never fit.

 It wasn’t my style. Always high-necked and ruffled.

 It was always exchanged after Christmas for some other article of clothing.

 Because you know what every seven-year-old dreams of on Christmas morning?

 Sportswear.

 It wasn’t until I was in college that Aunt Lois finally broke tradition.

 She gave me…

 …a book on aquariums.

 I still remember it. I loved it. I was quite the ichthyologist back in the day, so I spent most of Christmas paging through that book.

 That’s how monumental the change was.

 By the time I’d finished answering one simple journal prompt, I had also written about loving Monopoly, Clue, Chutes and Ladders, and every other board game imaginable.

 I owned almost none of them.

 Not because I didn’t want them.

 Because I had no one to play with.

 People sometimes tell only children how lucky they are.

I always smile politely.

 Then I think to myself…

 Lucky?

 It was lonely.

 It was isolating.

And being the center of your parents’ universe meant there was never another sibling around to distract them while you quietly got away with something.

 No wild oats were ever sown; wild oats require accomplices.

So here I am, decades later, writing in a book that was supposed to preserve happy memories for my grandchildren.

Instead, it has become an archaeological dig into my own childhood.

 Who knew a question about Barbie dolls could uncover decades worth of unanswered questions?

 I’m still writing in the journal every day.

 I’m just a little nervous about turning the page.

 Because if one innocent prompt about childhood toys can unleash all of that…

 …I’m almost afraid to find out what tomorrow’s question is.

If you can take revealing the hidden rage, you might want to get a copy and write a journal of your own. You can buy a copy here.

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