The Cookie Queen

 

 

“What is that?” Oscar asked, tracing the outline of my birthmark with his chubby toddler index finger in the lamplight as we were snuggling up before bedtime. His warm little body nestled into mine just like it did when it was still tinier than a chicken egg- “no matter how big he gets- he will always fit-“ I think to myself, inhaling the smell of his golden perfect hair deeply before making up a gigantic lie.

“It’s a secret mark. I was born with it.” I replied with dead seriousness. He became still and quiet, his attention hooked exactly as my lie had intended.

The birthmark on my lower left thigh is called a “speckled nevi” and it is at least three inches in diameter. It’s pigmented slightly darker than the rest of my skin and has irregular edges like a cloud, and has a collection of freckles sprinkled throughout, all of varying sizes and shapes. It’s rather unique- I’ve seen Port Wine birthmarks, Café-Au-Lait birthmarks and Strawberry birthmarks, but not many speckled nevis, and not many large ones.

                                                              the author's leg, with cookie

I remember staring at it with disdain as the shadows and sunlight moved over in the back seat of the car as my Mother was driving me to school. Nobody else had one, and not as big. She insisted on sewing clothes for her many children but she was not very good at it. Uneven hems and tacky patterns. These shorts in particular were made of unfashionable scratchy polyester with a clumsy elastic waist and exposed the hated birthmark, so before leaving the house she had to physically drag me into the bathroom, screaming and clawing the walls of the hallway, forcibly removing my pants and then leaving me alone with the shorts in the bathroom. “It’s too hot for pants.” Mom said through the door. She had no time for my nonsense.

              I begged Mom from the back seat for surgery to remove the birthmark. “You’d only be left with another scar in exactly the same place. How is that better?” Mom said dismissively, glancing into the rearview mirror.

“Hopeless. Give up. She’s not going to help you, ever.”

I’ve spent my entire childhood covering up my left thigh. I never wore shorts and as a teenager refused to wear swimming suits. All skirts were over the knee, and stockings fastidiously covered up the flaw on my left leg. If I had to wear shorts for whatever reason, my hand would cover it up. The birthmark was internalized as another thing that set me apart and made me different from the other girls. Anytime it was spotted the question would inevitably be asked “Hey, what is that?” and there isn’t an interesting answer like “Oil Spill” or “Car Wreck” or “Kidnapping”. Nobody’s ever really even been particularly mean about the birthmark or called me names, or didn’t pick me for their team in gym because of the birthmark. They didn’t pick me for a variety of other reasons, trust me. My birthmark was a terrible secret that I hid under my pantleg that made me asymmetrical and drew unwanted attention. One leg was perfect, one leg had a giant terrible blotch. When my friend Kelly and I would sit outside on the driveway in swimming suits sitting on beach towels in the hot sun after running through the sprinkler, and we’d be talking and I would see her eyes track back to my birthmark and feel ashamed it was such a distraction. It would get darker in the summertime, more tan than the rest of my leg. I felt like it was a wizard’s curse for not getting sunburned as easily as my sisters.

Other kids didn’t have to be cruel to set me apart from them, to reinforce the feeling of alienation. All they had to do was notice the obvious differences. It wasn’t just the birthmark anyways. By the time I was begging for surgery to remove the birthmark, I’d already been under general anesthesia for injuries at home three times, leaving me with two mutilated pinkie fingers that definitely did garner glances from kids from time to time. I’d had a serious concussion and a near drowning, none of which occurred in my Mother’s presence. I had plenty of scars that marked me for life and nobody tender enough to help me make sense of them with my child’s mind. My body was a freak show of brokenness and damage and I was only seven, lost in a large family of other kids with louder needs and uglier clothes, and even bigger birthmarks, medical emergencies and personality disorders. All these things had set me apart from others.

I didn’t get the chance to start parenting myself until I became a parent. And it was helpful that I was still practically a child when Oscar made his entrance. I was 21 years old and since all my other friends were doing what other people tend to do at that age (i.e. not parenting), mothering Oscar was another thing in my life that separated me from the herd- only I didn’t resent him even for a second. By the time he was with me, I’d accepted that I was a satellite in the constellation of the social order. Not in college, not in the bars or clubs or out dating or developing a sense of self. I was working night shifts, miserably married and increasingly isolated. I skipped over my 20’s before ever saying hello to anyone in them, including myself. The birthmark by then was only one of the minor things I had to be ashamed about.

So I told my darling little boy the story I wished my Mother had told me; not for him, but kind of selfishly I told it to me because he was only three and wouldn’t remember it anyways. It was a story that probably would have spared me a lifetime of shame over nothing more than a few specks of irregular random pigment. It may have been a story stolen from a movie. Something about my body that today doesn’t hold any power over me anymore, but for a good part of my childhood was a real source of needless pain and only because there wasn’t anyone around tuned in enough to see what pain is caused and creative enough to tell me a nice comforting lie. 

As I looked at his round little cherubic face, I pretended it was mine looking back up at me. I imagined that behind his hazel eyes was the burning secret embarrassment and shame I’d held in and kept too deep to articulate and I confabulated lovingly:

“Oscar, there is a kingdom beyond the clouds where the best cookies are. And that kingdom has a castle full of Royal Cookies- the most delicious ones, and they are the ones who all design the cookies and rule all the cookies and make sure all the cookies are delicious and interesting and special” My little golden boy nodded enthusiastically- what kid doesn’t like a cookie?  “Well, as it turns out, your mother has been hiding a secret the whole time. It turns out that I was born with the mark of Cookie Greatness! See!” I pointed dramatically to the birthmark. “This mark is proof that I am the Cookie Queen and someday I will rule the Kingdom of all Cookies!”   Oscar giggled in delight- not sure at his age if his mother is pulling a fast one on him or if there really is a magical cookie kingdom where his mother rules all cookies, but also not caring because he can talk about cookies any time of day.

 “That’s why you always make cookies?”

“Yes. I’m still searching for the right one. I'm thinking chocolate chip.” I replied.

 “Can we make cookies?” Ever the bargainer, he beseeches.

“Yes. But tomorrow. Now, it’s bedtime.”