There still are. I seem to gravitate toward women. And not just “in that way.” I feel more comfortable around them.
Clearly, it’s a Mom Thing. Or the side effect of a Dad Thing. A couple of years of therapy took care of most of the daddy issues, defused that hot button. But the other side, the mommy side is still there.
I liked my mom. The first five years before kindergarten, maybe all the way up to fourth or fifth grade I’ve got such nice memories of my mom and me. They could all be fake, fabricated, a figment of time and wishful thinking. Some of my memories are surely the little movies in my head, dramatizations of stories she used to tell me of things that happened.
How she watched me through the kitchen window playing in our huge sandbox on the patio outside our back door. (I do truly remember that sandbox: 6’x6’ or 8’x8’ at least a foot deep, with places to sit on the corners. My uncle made it; it was so cool!) She’d be making dinner, she told me, glancing out to check on me.
But some memories are mine. How she’d bring peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to me while I lay on the living room floor, pillow scrunched under me, watching the Bozo Show when I’d come home for lunch every afternoon from school.
The scent of Chanel No5 and a lipstick print on a Kleenex in the bathroom trashcan when she dressed up for a rare evening out.
The warm White Castle hamburgers she’d slip into my locker at middle school every so often as a treat.
Or when she’d drape a blanket over me, warm out of the clothes dryer, making me instantly snuggly.
So it’s no wonder I like women.
I had a lot of girl friends, I guess you’d say, before I met my wife. A lot compared to other people I know. Some didn’t go further than a date. About seven or eight were relationships: a month, a year or two. My first date, if you want to call it that, was sophomore year high school. I was fifteen: a double date. Steven Stills in concert with a freshman girl. All we did was sit next to each other and then she ignored me the next day at school (and the rest of my life).
It shows at neighborhood parties. While the men are all bellies in a circle discussing how much they like the new Iowa freshman with “good hands,” I’m in the other room with the women chatting about TV shows or the kids’ school. When I played “Mr. Mom” ten years ago after a layoff I hung out at the local pool with women.
The cardiac ward after my heart surgery was mostly women— fifteen or twenty moms buzzing around asking if you need anything. Nurse moms or tech moms. The head of cardiology was a woman.
Nearly all my medical maintenance people are female.
My dentist. Ophthalmologist. Podiatrist. My current primary care doctor is a guy but I’ve had female GPs before, three total, actually. A female Endo shoved a needle in my neck to check the growth on my thyroid. I’ve had female physical therapists and used to only go to women to get my hair cut. (I go to a gay guy now.)
And, of course, my biggest Mommy Figure of them all: my behavioral psychologist, my therapist, my shrink is a woman. I don’t know if therapy would’ve worked anywhere near as well if I’d gone to a male psychologist.
So, yeah, go ahead… Call me a Momma’s Boy but I’m tellin’ ma!