TBT // 3
by Ashley Weeks Cart
I have no rules. No blogging skills. Just a desire to put my voice out into the world from my particular lived experience. It started as a way to document my daughter’s life – but has evolved into a creative outlet and sounding board for whatever I am thinking about or inspired by. And that’s what keeps me posting everyday.
I want our home to be a safe space. A haven from all the societal pressures and messages about who my daughters are supposed to be. Under my roof, I want them to be free to be. Just be.
My parents did the best they could to disguise the ears that drew such negative attention. My mother cleverly used those circular, fabric headbands that were huge in the early 90s seven-year old subset to hold down the back tips of my ears. I also rocked bangs as thick as a Bible that my mother would wet and then hold down with Scotch tape to dry in an effort to prevent that pesky colic from peeking its way through the strands. There are next to no photos of me as a child with my hair pulled back. I was always jealous of my little sister’s collection of frilly bows and scrunchies that she used to style her hair in ponytails, braids, half up/half downs, and so on.
The bed came over to America in 1860 via boat (obviously) when your great-great-great-great-great grandparents immigrated here from Germany. In fact, your great-great-great-great grandfather was born in that bed. It has been passed down generation after generation, from first born woman in the family to first born woman. I lay there thinking of each of our grandmothers – Munner, Momo, Grammy and now Momar – and the six generations of first born women who shared that very frame.