What I'm relating here is a paraphrase, an accurate paraphrase, of what Mother wrote in Spitz, her journal, lo those many years ago.
After I'd crawled up on Mother's lap and we were both certifiably comfortable, I exploded. I'd hated that dotted Swiss dress. It didn't have a belt, and when I wore it I felt like a baby. I was three. I wasn't a baby, and I didn't want to look like one. I'd cut up the dress to get rid of it, and I was glad it was gone. And why, Mother wanted to know, hadn't I simply told her that? If she'd known my feelings, she'd have respected them. That would have been that. The shredding had been dramatic but unnecessary. In the future, would I please tell her my likes and dislikes, my loves and loathings. Could I do that? I could. Would I like her to share her feelings with me? I would. Thereafter, if I didn't tell Mother I hated turnips, I shouldn't be surprised to see them for dinner. If she didn't tell me I was driving her crazy singing, "I knew a farmer, had a dog, and Bingo was his name, O!," she should expect to hear me singing away. From this point on, we were remarkably open with each other, or we lived with the consequences of our secretiveness.
While I never regretted the absence of turnips, I did miss singing about the farmer and Bingo. I sing about them occasionally today, "I knew a farmer, had a a dog, and Bingo was his name, O! B-I-N-G-O!, B-I-N-G-O!, B-I-N-G-O!, Bingo was his name, O!" Sort of gets to you, doesn't it?
To be continued.
I agree with your mother on the song about Bingo. Interesting posts always. I think I may have a crush on your mother, so unlike mine, who ruled the house like Stalin.
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