Better Than Barbies

My mom recently posted a picture to her Facebook page of her and her six of her friends from Christmastime, circa 1985.  She and the girls—most of them in their late twenties or so in the photo, are standing in front of a Christmas tree, looking relaxed in each other’s company, sporting smiles and short, permed hairstyles.  My mom’s in the front row wearing quite the eye-catching ensemble—a silky, purple blouse that’s as shiny as a sheet of holiday wrapping paper.  Her arms are hanging down beneath billowy sleeves that remind me of bows, cascading down the sides of a pretty package.

I’ve been told I look like my mom a lot through the years, but as I focused in on the gleaming gift in the lower right corner that was my mother, I was struck by just how much our faces actually did resemble one another—same pointed chin, hazel eyes, and all.  Standing out to me even more than our shared semblance, however, was the fact that I was looking at a photo of her in which she was the same age as I am now—even a little younger. 

She and her friends had always seemed so grown-up to me when I was a little girl, and here I was, all caught up to the age they were in my earliest memories of them. 

Most of them attended our church in International Falls, Minnesota, and had friendly-sounding names ending in “y” sounds, like Debbie, Becky, Margy, and Mary.  They smelled like hairspray and musky perfume, and they milled around our crowded church foyer wearing shoulder pads, chunky earrings, and dresses we kids liked to tug on when they chatted too long after the service—which was almost always—towering above us in their nylons and high heels, gripping church programs doodled with sermon notes, tick-tack-toes, and to-do lists.

They socialized outside of church, too, tackling the latest arts and crafts projects, like hot-gluing dried apple wreaths and making loon figurines out of painted walnuts.  They also took aerobics classes together, shopped together, and threw baby showers and birthday parties for one another.  They visited each other’s houses while we kids played—boys and girls of varying ages.  We didn’t always like playing together, but we did, so our moms could play, too.   

I loved looking at the pictures of these pretty, put-together women in our church directory, nestled safely in the center of their happy households. I felt safe and sound, too, being surrounded by so many safe people.   They all seemed so capable—so comfortable in their own skin to my widely wondering eyes—with each woman wielding her own unique set of quirks and capabilities. There was the super-tan one who sang special music numbers in church and always had popsicles on hand at her house on Rainy Lake.  And then there was the one with warm, brown eyes and a warm demeanor to match who loved baking cookies and wrangling her three rowdy sons.  There was also the spunky teacher’s aide who lived across the street from my grandma with the big, black inner tube in her backyard that she let my sisters and I bounce on, burning the backs of our legs when it had been sitting out too long in the sun, the blonde in the bunch of brunettes with the loud personality and girly giggle, and the soft-spoken on-call nurse with the outgoing, imaginative daughter who would later become my best friend throughout grade school.  And of course there was my social, sensitive mom, who would rather be out be-boppin’ around town with her four squirrely girls than chasing the never-ending cycle of chores around at home.  On and on the list of names and nuances went as I slowly studied the directory, flipping through their photos in fascination.

It was even better than playing Barbie dolls.  These women already had their own real-life stories, their own closets full of accessories and clothes, their own talents and tasks to keep them on their perfectly painted toes.  All I had to do was sit back and watch.  And they were more interesting to look at than Barbies because, like I already said, they weren’t all blonde.

I had similar thoughts a few weeks ago as I scanned the bustling foyer of my current church in Gillette, Wyoming.  The room was peppered with girls my age—newlyweds, young moms, and career women— toting purses and divinely-appointed purposes, and I was one of them.  We stood—not sat—around the circular tables that spanned the room like giant polka dots, leaning against the chair’s backs while we chatted.  As I held their toddlers, teased their kids, and talked about swapping baby clothes, foraging for new recipes and craft ideas on Pinterest, and organizing Christmas caroling, I couldn’t help but compare us to my mom and the church ladies from childhood.  Here we were, our own company of characters, with lives more complex and compelling than even the most creative of minds could conjure.

We were the missionary to India with the long, dark curls and piercing blue eyes, the pint-sized freelance photographer with a love of shoes and gourmet cheeses, the vivacious Venezuelan who counseled and translated for people in her spare time and delighted in adorning herself in all things yellow, orange, and green, the thrifty homemaker who couponed, canned, and crocheted,  the bold, stylish blonde with culinary talent and impressive braiding skills, the Canadian youth minister with the porcelain skin and equally delicate spirit, the sweet graduate student with the Nebraskan accent and habit of cutting her own hair, the savvy business owner who hosted marriage retreats at her Black Hills cabin, and the long-haired blogger with the unpublished book and bubbly baby girl, among countless others.  I could only wonder if, like so many of our moms, we could be considered worthy role models in the eyes of the dolly-dragging girls dancing and prancing between the tables around us.  I certainly hoped so.

I got a little case of déja vu last week when I opened my Facebook page to find a photo my sister-in-law had posted from her baby shower earlier this month.  The shower’s attendees are gathered in front of a Christmas tree to help the mother-to-be commemorate that special day in a snapshot.  Many of the women are described in the paragraph above, some of them along with their daughters.  And kneeling down in the lower right corner with the pointed chin and purple shirt is me, desiring, as I’m sure as all the rest of the ladies beneath the tree, to be a gift.