A Tomboy and a Dollhouse
a divorce, a death, a secret identity
For my eighth birthday I received four gifts.
From Dad: Custom Nike hi-tops. An erector set. A soccer ball signed by Mia Hamm.
From Mom: A dollhouse.
Both of my parents thought they got me the perfect gifts that year. And they were both correct.
The best thing about having divorced parents is that you get two sets of presents on your birthday. The worst thing about having divorced parents is that you’re torn in two pieces. One piece is loyal to Mom, and the other to Dad.
This was particularly challenging for me because Dad loved me most when I walked off the soccer field with dirty elbows and scraped knees. He was happiest when he was timing me as I maneuvered through the obstacle course he set up in my backyard. And Mom loved me most when I dressed myself in hot pink leggings and glittered Converse. She was happiest when we would wear matching red lipstick and pucker our lips to sing “Kiss” by Prince.
I was five years old when my parents got divorced and even then I was able to recognize what an impossible task it would have been for one person to satisfy each of their visions for what a good daughter looked like. So, at five, I became two people. A sports-obsessed-backwards-hat-wearing-tomboy for Dad and a sparkle-loving-lip-gloss-wearing-girly-girl for Mom. Getting into character for each of my parents was easy. The real skill was required when it was time to change houses. “Just drop me off and I’ll walk around the back,” I would casually suggest. And then I would sneak into the tool shed at Dad’s or under the willow tree at Mom’s and swap my denim skirt and pink headband for a pair of breakaways and a sweatband. I did this Tuesdays, Thursdays, and every other weekend for four years.
I remember one time, when I was seven, I nearly blew my cover. I rang the doorbell at Dad’s house without changing out of my frilly socks. In a panic just before he could open the door, I bent down, ripped the lace from the top seam, and swallowed that decorative foot-trim whole.
My clothes-swapping ritual always felt clever. I could be a girly-girl and a tomboy — but never both at the same time. Mom was happy, Dad was happy, so I was happy.
But then, when I was nine, things began to really unravel. My mom died in a car accident on her way to visit me at sleepaway camp.
As Dad delivered the news about my mother’s death, I thought about my last moments with her, decorating my dollhouse. I thought about going to the toy store together to pick out miniature tables, chairs, and armoires. I thought about long afternoons in my bedroom rearranging the tiny furniture. I thought about hard she laughed watching me attempt to walk around in her heels. I thought about my brand new dress with the sunflowers on it that she got for me, that I would never get to wear. I thought about what my life would be like not only without Mom, but also without half of myself. I couldn’t let Dad see the other side of me.
My dollhouse was the only relic I took with me from Mom’s when I moved permanently to Dad’s. I knew it would be out of place in my blue room, and that it would confuse dad, but I just needed it there.
In the months following my mother’s death, I would wake up in the middle of the night missing Mom so much that my body ached. The only relief I could find was sneaking into the bathroom when dad was asleep and applying lipstick that I stole from my stepmother’s drawer. One particularly sleepless nights, I would pathologically rearrange the furniture in my dollhouse. On several occasions, I tried gathering up the courage to ask Dad to buy me a dress, but I never could.
Little by little, I pushed the girly-girl right out of me. It was too painful having her around. By the time I was ten I had pendulumed so far toward tomboy that I had completely stopped brushing my hair. My fourth grade teacher called my parents after she overheard me telling Tracy Dubb that it was okay for girls to pee standing up. I got sent to the principal when I pulled my pants down in the middle of class to prove to Jason Levine that I didn’t have a penis. In the ultimate display of my masculinity, I wore a tuxedo to my aunt’s wedding. Bow tie, cummerbund, and all.
One night, I couldn’t stand the sight of that dollhouse anymore. I hated how it sat on my dresser judging me and my sports t-shirts. So I grabbed the meanest, rustiest hammer I could find and destroyed my dollhouse with it. Whack! Whack! Whack! The splintering wood cut through my hands until they were bleeding.
There I was, finally destroying the only active reminder of the girl in me, but where was the liberation? Ever since I ditched that first charm bracelet for a Casio watch, I had been falling to pieces without knowing it. One divorce, one death, and one secret identity later, I was as broken as the dollhouse at my feet. I wanted desperately to feel whole, but how?
When my dollhouse was finally in pieces, I walked into the bathroom to wash up and looked in the mirror. My face was streaked red from using my bloody hands to wipe my tears. My eyes were glistening and my hair was long, shiny, and wavy. I still had that hammer in my hand. I looked like a warrior. A beautiful little warrior. And that is exactly what I was. What I saw in the mirror was tough and feminine. Athletic and delicate. Intense and pretty. I loved how I looked.
In that moment, I realized that I could be all of those things and still be me. And still be one person. Today, fifteen years later, I am strong, I am whole, and I am a woman. I still love what I see in the mirror. The destruction of my dollhouse gave me that gift.
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