Rebellious Daughters by Maria Katsonis And Lee Kofman Page A
Authors: Maria Katsonis And Lee Kofman
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competent.
But when we speak of âgoodâ girls, the goodness at stake is often not one of excellence or ability. Rather, we tend to embody the first and original definition of âgoodâ: 1. Adjective . To be desired or approved of.
True to that definition, I have desperately sought the approval of others for as long as I can remember. Who comprises this elusive group of âothersâ has changed over time. Friends, colleagues, coaches, lecturers, bosses, employees, neighbours, the local barista, strangers on social media⦠But it began, of course, with my parents.
Iâm a ferocious reader, a trait inherited from my mother. A primary school teacher and devoted lover of fiction, she dutifully read aloud to me before bed every evening when I was little.
â The elephant and the bad baby went rumpeta, rumpeta, rumpeta down the roadâ, read Mum, emphasising the same words she always did. By the time you read something aloud to a three-year-old for the 32nd time, there isnât a lot of room for innovative eloquence.
The Elephant and the Bad Baby was a standout favourite of mine. Itâs a tale of an elephant riding through town with a baby on its back, collecting delicious goodies from kind strangers. In a truly reprehensible act of rudeness, the baby demands more and more treats without ever saying âpleaseâ or âthank youâ. Ultimately baby gets his comeuppance, which is the resolution I would spendthe whole story gleefully anticipating.
âThe bad baby is very naughty, isnât he?â I asked.
Mum replied in the affirmative, which was a fair but insufficient response for my purposes. Being a good girl, I needed personal approval, not mere factual confirmation.
âI always say pleaseâ¦â I said â not so much fishing for compliments as ramming that fishhook violently down my poor motherâs throat.
âYou have very nice manners,â Mum assured me.
Satisfied, I returned my attention to the book and listened as the bad baby was sent home to bed, while the other characters enjoyed pancakes for breakfast. It was the prime childhood punishment of forced sleep coupled with sugar deprivation. Devastating.
Other-children-getting-into-trouble was my favourite genre, both in books and in life. Observing people depart from the well-behaved path provided a thrill. I was always disapproving of and yet fascinated by their rebellion. The concept of being naughty was deeply exhilarating particularly as it was something I never dared to try out for myself. I was too afraid of the judgement of others.
In my first few years of life, bad children whose behaviour I could feel superior about existed only in storybooks. Then, when I was four, my sister Mimi was born. She provided me with a living example of naughtiness.
Mimi arrived in our lives, red-faced and screaming. I was pleased to see her. Partly because I wanted a siblingto play with and partly because my dogged insistence that the baby growing in mumâs tummy was a girl had been proven correct.
My sister wasnât a delicate newborn by any means. She clocked in at a good kilogram heavier than I had been at birth, then rapidly developed the kind of fat rolls that would make a sumo wrestler proud. The infinite folds of skin on her thighs, her Joan Kirner hairstyle and the bright red cheeks were both cute and absurd.
On the change table she was an unstoppable force, pushing herself up onto all fours and grasping the railings tightly with her chubby fists. Then sheâd rock back and forwards. Rhythmically. Violently. The metal legs would sway and creak as she performed the baby version of riding a mechanical bull, cowboy hat (AKA rattle) in hand.
Mimi would sit in her high chair and slowly but deliberately shovel an entire banana into her mouth without swallowing. The brownish-yellow mush would ooze out the corners of her lips and drip down her chin. This fruit consumption was a daily
But when we speak of âgoodâ girls, the goodness at stake is often not one of excellence or ability. Rather, we tend to embody the first and original definition of âgoodâ: 1. Adjective . To be desired or approved of.
True to that definition, I have desperately sought the approval of others for as long as I can remember. Who comprises this elusive group of âothersâ has changed over time. Friends, colleagues, coaches, lecturers, bosses, employees, neighbours, the local barista, strangers on social media⦠But it began, of course, with my parents.
Iâm a ferocious reader, a trait inherited from my mother. A primary school teacher and devoted lover of fiction, she dutifully read aloud to me before bed every evening when I was little.
â The elephant and the bad baby went rumpeta, rumpeta, rumpeta down the roadâ, read Mum, emphasising the same words she always did. By the time you read something aloud to a three-year-old for the 32nd time, there isnât a lot of room for innovative eloquence.
The Elephant and the Bad Baby was a standout favourite of mine. Itâs a tale of an elephant riding through town with a baby on its back, collecting delicious goodies from kind strangers. In a truly reprehensible act of rudeness, the baby demands more and more treats without ever saying âpleaseâ or âthank youâ. Ultimately baby gets his comeuppance, which is the resolution I would spendthe whole story gleefully anticipating.
âThe bad baby is very naughty, isnât he?â I asked.
Mum replied in the affirmative, which was a fair but insufficient response for my purposes. Being a good girl, I needed personal approval, not mere factual confirmation.
âI always say pleaseâ¦â I said â not so much fishing for compliments as ramming that fishhook violently down my poor motherâs throat.
âYou have very nice manners,â Mum assured me.
Satisfied, I returned my attention to the book and listened as the bad baby was sent home to bed, while the other characters enjoyed pancakes for breakfast. It was the prime childhood punishment of forced sleep coupled with sugar deprivation. Devastating.
Other-children-getting-into-trouble was my favourite genre, both in books and in life. Observing people depart from the well-behaved path provided a thrill. I was always disapproving of and yet fascinated by their rebellion. The concept of being naughty was deeply exhilarating particularly as it was something I never dared to try out for myself. I was too afraid of the judgement of others.
In my first few years of life, bad children whose behaviour I could feel superior about existed only in storybooks. Then, when I was four, my sister Mimi was born. She provided me with a living example of naughtiness.
Mimi arrived in our lives, red-faced and screaming. I was pleased to see her. Partly because I wanted a siblingto play with and partly because my dogged insistence that the baby growing in mumâs tummy was a girl had been proven correct.
My sister wasnât a delicate newborn by any means. She clocked in at a good kilogram heavier than I had been at birth, then rapidly developed the kind of fat rolls that would make a sumo wrestler proud. The infinite folds of skin on her thighs, her Joan Kirner hairstyle and the bright red cheeks were both cute and absurd.
On the change table she was an unstoppable force, pushing herself up onto all fours and grasping the railings tightly with her chubby fists. Then sheâd rock back and forwards. Rhythmically. Violently. The metal legs would sway and creak as she performed the baby version of riding a mechanical bull, cowboy hat (AKA rattle) in hand.
Mimi would sit in her high chair and slowly but deliberately shovel an entire banana into her mouth without swallowing. The brownish-yellow mush would ooze out the corners of her lips and drip down her chin. This fruit consumption was a daily
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