She is forty-seven years old (I'm sure she's thrilled about her age being plastered on the web) and her name is Betty. People tease me because my parents are named Bob and Betty; apparently it's slightly too "nuclear family" for them. I've heard my parents' names are those of Vonnegut characters, but since I haven't read everything Vonnegut's done, I wouldn't know.

But I digress.

A few years ago, my mother and I had a mediocre-at-best relationship. I think it was because we couldn't be around each other without criticizing each other. For example, I hated her smoking, and she thought I was lying about feeling sick from the smoke. We also had a continuous struggle over control. Because I am her only child, it was probably hard for her to admit that I was approaching adulthood. My curfew began to be enforced strictly - if I came home five minutes late, I was guaranteed a lecture the next day. I guess a lot of our problems were my fault, but I was younger and I always felt she was wrong.

And now I am eighteen, which isn't really old at all. We coexist peacefully, but it isn't Carol and Marcia Brady by any means. I don't know if my mom feels this slight imperfection. I doubt it, because I've remained quiet about everything.

My mother was a beautiful woman when she was eighteen: tall, with long brown hair and big beautiful eyes. I've seen pictures and she seemed to have a lot of friends. Apparently, the boys used to adore her during her sorority days, and I'm sure that woman would be admired today.

Betty was tall; I am of average height. She had thick, shiny brown hair; my hair is thin and recovering from too much red dye. She had hips, and I strive for the day when I wear men's pants to be cute, not because they're the only ones that fit me.

It would be bad enough to harbor my feelings of inadequacy. But then she says things that hurt. "You look like a boy!" she tells me. "If I were a stranger, I wouldn't know if you were a boy or a girl!"

She thinks my hair is too short, and I know she wishes I would wear cuter clothes. And even though she has never vocally told me this, I know that she's slightly embarrassed by my appearance. Sloppy. Unfeminine. The funny thing is, I'm no punk rock fashion plate; I'm just a kid in a sweater, pants, and sneakers. But I suppose that makes me look like a boy.

She took me to the Clinique counter at Hudson's once and had the chirpy Clinique woman slather some makeup on my face. It was stinky and heavy and I washed the paint off my skin as soon as we arrived home. But weeks later, I found myself telling my mother how I had gone back to Hudson's earlier that day to buy some foundation. She was so happy when she found out, that maybe I would turn into a girl after all. But a year later, the flesh-colored paint remains in its container, untouched save for a few pimple cover-ups.

I hate makeup, but I wanted my mother to find me attractive. It is utterly depressing to know that your mother thinks you aren't as pretty as you could be. Not that you aren't pretty - that you are pretty, but you just choose to hide it. I feel so bad because, well, look at her and how she looked. She was so attractive, and I know that with the right tools of modern "femininity," I could look like that too. But I don't really want to.

People comment on our eyes; we have blue-grey eyes and I've been told I look like a kitty. But although our eyes look alike, we see differently. She cannot see that I like my unpleated corduroys and t-shirts, and I can't see why she doesn't understand me. I wish she could accept this part of me (which isn't even a large portion); I think she tries to do so. But she can't do it. I can tell she wishes I could be a typically pretty girl. I feel like I'm letting her down by being who I am, and that's a cryin' shame because I can't change myself.

I just wish I could make my mom happier, but I can't do it with the way I look. And I so wish I didn't care about that, but I honestly do. I don't really care if people on the street think I look like a boy, because I can always think they just didn't look hard enough or that they're just silly. But when my own mother thinks I look like a boy, I feel horrible because I am a girl. And as much as this makes me feel like an idiot, I need my mother to think I look like one, too.

written 6.24.96 1 am. web form 10.25.96 1 pm. design revised 10.05.97 1pm.