Growing up, there was not 

a night that went by that my 
mom didn’t read to me before 
bed. It was a ritual. After my 
bath, I would choose a book or 
two (or three, depending on 
how fatigued my mom was) and 
crawl into her lap. My process 
of choosing the right books was 
anywhere from immediate to 
a whole production up until 
my mom threatened to cancel 
storytime altogether unless I 
decided quickly. I’d stand at my 
bookshelf, taking in the distinct 
smell of old wood and paper, and 
select our stories for the night. 
I generally gravitated to the 
same books over and over again, 
but one of the greatest joys of 
my childhood was trips to the 
library with my mom. It was 
here where my mom and I spent 
time exploring and traversing 
the shelves for our next story.

I spent a lot of time picking 

out the perfect books for the 
week ahead. There was one 
time when I was so engrossed 
by the selection of potential 
books that I ignored my bladder 
signaling to me it was time to 
go; I peed myself in the middle 
of the library just because I 
wanted to keep looking at the 
books. I thankfully had my mom 
standing close by to hand me 
her sweater and help me cover 
my new dark blue pants. As 
humiliating as that experience 
was at the time, my mom and I 
frequently laugh about it to this 
day in a shared remembrance of 
all of the memories we shared 
at the library. The library not 

only offered me quality time 
with my mom but also instilled 
in me a passion for reading that 
I continue to foster. Without the 
time I spent with my mom in the 
library and during storytime, 
I don’t know if I would be the 
reader I am today. Below is a 
short tour of some of my and my 
mom’s favorite books found in 
the library and on my shelves.

“Corduroy” 
by 
Don 

Freeman

I’ve always felt attached to 

this book, probably because 
I used to think my stuffed 
animals were alive. Maybe their 

perceived sentience was the 
result of growing up in the age 
of “Toy Story,” or maybe it was 
just because I’ve always had 
an overactive imagination, but 
I was never able to shake the 
feeling that my stuffed animals 
had their own wants and desires. 
Corduroy is a toy bear who wants 
to be taken home. When a girl’s 
mother realizes he is missing a 
button, she refuses to concede 
to her daughter in her desire 

to buy Corduroy. After this, 
Corduroy commits to finding his 
lost button to ensure that, next 
time, he is taken home. Though 
Corduroy fails to find a button, 
his friend from the day before 
comes back ready to purchase 
him 
with 
her 
own 
money. 

Corduroy gave me the one thing 
I’ve always loved in a story — an 
adorable underdog to fight for. 
The nights that my mom and I 
read this book, I always held my 
own toy bear a little tighter.

“Where Do Balloons Go? An 

Uplifting Mystery” by Jamie 
Lee Curtis

I love Jamie Lee Curtis, not 

only for her acting in my other 
childhood 
staple, 
“Freaky 

Friday,” but also for her superb 
ability to write a children’s book. 
When I was younger, I thought 
this book was genius. Everyone 
wants to know where balloons 
go, especially six-year-old me. 
I loved this book because I got 
to imagine with my mom all the 
places my lost balloons could be. 
Nothing was off-limits with this 

book: tangoing with airplanes, 
floating next to the sun or 
just laying down and relaxing. 
Another plus to this book (and 
maybe the main reason I kept 
coming back to it) was the 
reusable balloon stickers that 
came with it. Maybe all authors 
should include stickers in their 
books so that readers will 
remember the book, even years 
later. 

“Walter the Farting Dog” 

by William Kotzwinkle

When I start thinking about 

the books my mom and I used to 
read, this is the first book that 
comes to mind. Simultaneously 
a story about a thwarted home 
invasion attempt and a tale 
of 
unconditional 
love, 
this 

author definitely knows how 
to get his readers invested. 
Our protagonist, Walter, is a 
farting dog. His unrelenting 
toots smell putrid no matter 
what diet his family puts him 
on. The father is just about to 
send Walter back to the pound 
for his flatulence when Walter 
saves the family from burglars 
by letting out “the worst fart of 
his life,” which smells so bad 
that the thieves have to leave 
the house immediately without 
stealing a single thing. When 
I was younger, I remember 
thinking this book was the 
peak of comedy. I still don’t 
know if I’ve ever laughed as 
hard as when my mom and I 
first read this book. Perhaps 
it was because the author says 
the word “fart” so much, or 
maybe it was just because of 
the absurdity of the story itself, 
but I couldn’t get enough.

“Dear Lady Bird, when I 

got pregnant with you, it was a 
miracle.”

The letters that Marion (Laurie 

Metcalf, 
“Roseanne”) 
writes 

to her daughter are never read 
aloud. She never gives them to 
her because she is afraid that 
Lady Bird (Saoirse Ronan, “Little 
Women”) will “judge her writing 
abilities.” Lady Bird only sees 
them because her father (Tracy 
Letts, “Ford v. Ferrari”) fishes 
them out of the garbage and 
sneaks them into her suitcase 
before she leaves for college. You 
have to pause the film to be able 
to read the crumpled letters. So 
much of the love in this film goes 
unspoken in hopes that it might 
hurt less.

“Lady Bird” is a coming-of-age 

story about Christine, who asks to 
be called Lady Bird, as she exits 
high school and grapples with 
her relationship with her mother. 
There’s no shortage of writing 
about this film out there, but I 
do sometimes feel that discourse 
about the film centers on Lady 
Bird as an individual rather than 
in relation to those around her. We 
see ourselves in her as a heroine 
taking on the world because that 
is what high school feels like. 
It’s hard to remember that our 
mothers once felt the same way.

Really, I think that Lady Bird is 

a 21st-century Holden Caulfield, 
and Greta Gerwig (“20th Century 
Women”) is our J.D. Salinger. 
Lady Bird is a bitter, mean, clever, 
funny, original conformist. We 
identify with her as much as we 
resent her. She wants to “live 

through something.” Ironically, 
she just witnessed 9/11 the year 
before, but the things that happen 
in our lives never seem as earth-
shattering as they do in books, do 
they? 

It’s the impetus of her first 

on-screen fight with her mother. 
Her mother, who was raised by 
an abusive, alcoholic mother, feels 
that Lady Bird has a “great life.” 
In a lot of ways, she does, but she’s 
not just looking for the bottom 
rows of Maslow’s hierarchy of 
needs. Lady Bird desperately, 
desperately wants an adventure. 
She feels that the real stories only 
happen in proximity to her: her 
theater director grieves for his 
son, her first boyfriend worries 
about coming out, her second 
boyfriend has a father dying of 
cancer. The problems in her life 
feel so small in comparison.

Gerwig does an incredible job 

of tricking us into thinking the 
same thing. A story about Lady 
Bird’s brother watching someone 
get stabbed is bracketed by the 
phrase “Immaculate Fart.” At 
the psychiatric ward where 
Marion works, a patient tries to 
hurt someone or themselves off-
screen. While Marion admits 
that it was scary, she simply says 
that they’ll have to go back to 
felt-tip markers and hands her 
coworker a gift for his newborn 
daughter. Lady Bird actually 
jumps out of a moving car on 
the highway, and Gerwig is able 
to make us laugh instead of cry 
about it. It feels like when you’re 
telling a story about your life at 
a party, and only when you say 
it out loud do you realize how 
fucked up it actually is. 

In 2012, my family went to see 

“Brave,” Pixar’s newest installment, 
in theaters while on a trip to Boston. 
I was 12 years old at the time, and my 
older sister was in high school; she 
and my mom had been fighting a lot, 
going through the classic teenage-
girl-versus-mother-tension. In the 
theater, everyone in my family had 
something different to enjoy. While 

I focused on the jokes, my mom and 
sister seemed to focus more on the 
heart of the story: the relationship 
between Merida (Kelly Macdonald, 
“No Country for Old Men”) and her 
mother Elinor (Emma Thompson, 
“Cruella”).

The film instantly sets up the 

differences between Merida and 
her mother. Merida, with her wild 
red hair, chafes at the way her life 
is planned out. Her freest moments 
are those when she is alone with her 
horse, her bow and the surrounding 
natural landscape; her most limited 
moments are those when her mother 
is preparing her to be the queen of her 
land by teaching the expectations of 
a princess, which Merida despises. 
On the other hand, Elinor is hesitant 
to let her daughter take paths that 
go beyond the tradition that she is 
used to. Elinor sees her lessons and 
the conditions that she imposes 

on Merida as ways to guarantee a 
secure future; Merida sees these as 
restrictions and therefore believes 
that her mother is the barrier 
between her and the future she 
wants for herself.

“Brave,” Pixar’s first film with 

a female protagonist, caught the 
attention of audiences with its 
incredibly detailed animation, strong 
Scottish brogue and the deliberate 
exclusion of a romantic subplot. This 
last aspect is not something to take 
lightly — Merida’s declaration of “I’ll 
be shootin’ for mah own hahnd” is 

a groundbreaking, not to mention 
iconic, departure from fairy tale 
tropes. In “Brave,” no one gets to 
win Merida’s hand without her own 
consent.

This becomes the boiling point 

of tensions between Merida, who 
values her freedom to the point of 
selfishness, and Elinor, who values 
tradition to the point that she ignores 
her daughter’s happiness. Words 
fly; a tapestry, meant to depict the 
bond of family, gets torn. Merida 
consults a witch (Julie Walters, 
“Mamma Mia!”) and gets a potion 
meant to “change” her mother — 
specifically her entrenched beliefs 
— and inadvertently turns her into a 
bear. It’s an extreme beginning to a 
reconciliation, but it effectively forces 
them into a position where they have 
to listen to and learn from each other.

One of the things I love most about 

“Brave” is that the female characters 

and relationships are not diminished. 
Elinor and Merida’s quiet conflict, 
while taking on an admittedly 
oversized obstacle (i.e., transforming 
into 
a 
bear), 
is 
sophisticated 

and complex compared to the 
cartoonishly overdone masculinity 
of the clansmen. Additionally, both 
Elinor and Merida carry incredible 
power. When they walk through 
the room, the men stop fighting and 
create a path; when they speak, people 
listen. The clashes between them are 
not characterized as “catfights” or 
stupid conflicts based in jealousy. 
When they fight, it’s because they are 
both independent and strong; when 
they make up, it’s because there is 
still room in the world (and the film) 
for two incredibly powerful women 
to be on the same side.

The 
transformation 
of 
their 

relationship 
is 
admittedly 

predictable, 
filled 
with 
easy 

metaphors 
about 
ruptures 
and 

healing, but the intensity of the 
emotion is what gives it so much 
power. A scene where Elinor and 
Merida talk to their respective 
sounding boards — Elinor’s husband 
Fergus 
(Billy 
Connolly, 
“The 

Boondock Saints”) and Merida’s 
horse Angus — moves back and forth 
between them as they express their 
free-flowing feelings, demonstrating 
how the biggest problem between the 
two of them, like most relationships, 
is a lack of simple communication. 
As Merida’s gotten older, they’ve 
stopped rationally explaining their 
hopes for fear of clashing, and they’ve 
lost their ability to convey their 
affection for each other. These rifts 
are contrasted with moments from 
Merida’s childhood — one shown 
at the beginning of the film and 
one shown as things become more 
dire — that show scenes of affection 
between mother and daughter. 
Merida and Elinor hug each other 
and look at each other with love as 
if to show that their foundation is 
unshakable, even when it feels as 
though it’s being shaken.

I’ve always been deemed a bit of a 
momma’s child. 
Grabbing your hand or hiding 
behind your leg, a scared child. 
I knew I was safe from everything.
The boring world of math. The 
dangers of human society. 
Having crust on my sandwiches.
The only thing I wasn’t safe from
Was growing up.
So I did.
Because I had to.
I had to be a part of this family.
We joke that I look like no one in the 
family —
Me, the wrong baby taken home 
from a British hospital —
But secretly, 
If I can say this honestly
I was always glad I looked most like 
you. 
One of your three kids had to.
It’s an honor that it’s me.
Because I get to. 
I get to do these amazing things,
These many amazing things
That not everyone has the chance 
to do.
Like attend a prestigious university,
Like tell stories for people who 
want to listen,
Like care deeply for my friends and 
family,
Things I strive to not take for 
granted every day.
Because I have your support.
I have your support more like a best 
friend than a mother,
A friend who loves and listens with 
the fervor and wisdom of a mother.
It cannot be easy, I know
Seeing your child, the youngest of 
the flock, 
Turning 22.
Ready to graduate college.
Ready to move on and up and out.
To fly out of the nest and seek their 
own destiny.
To define their own identity.
Because I am expected to.
I am expected to be okay with the 
marching of time,

The 
endless 
and 
unstoppable 

forward momentum of time.
It is not easy, you know,
That your child, the youngest of the 
flock,
Has turned 22.
They are not ready to graduate 
college.
They are not ready to move on or up.
They are certainly not ready to 
move out.
To seek their own destiny.
To define their own identity.
Because life is a lot scarier without 
your leg to hide behind.
Without your leg to hide behind, 
the shadows of adulthood look 
much scarier.
Even when a light shines on them 
and they go away, they are much 
scarier.
Facing 
them 
alone, 
venturing 

through the woods
In the way a child must
Once they stop being viewed as 
merely a child.
You can only pave the road so far,
Until I take your place.
Because I am expected to stand on 
my own.
To stand on my own, with you on 
the sidelines,
Passionately cheering me on and 
providing orange slices.
My number one supporter and 
biggest fan,

Reading articles about a digital 
world you don’t always get. 
My cheerleader dancing to Marcia 
Ball,
Although it was never actually 
Marcia Ball playing.
But you’d dance anyway and ask me 
to join you.
And I would groan and giggle and 
roll my eyes,
But I would join you anyway.
Because I would not be who I am 
without you.
Without you, I would not have my 
passion for music.
Because you created a place for me 
and others to practice it.
Or my passion for reading.
Because you would buy me books 
when I sped through them in a day.
For love. For helping. For listening. 
Because you care so much about 
others, 
Putting the needs of those we love 
at the forefront of our minds,
An endless well of love.
For crabs. For musicals.
Because there is no greater joy than 
you digging into a crab the same 
way 
one digs into a great piece of art. 
For my family.
Because without you, we would not 
know who to be. 

4 – Wednesday, October 27, 2021 
Arts

Mothers, daughters and bears, oh my
A mother’s child

Forgiving our mothers 

through ‘Lady Bird’

Farting fairy tales and other stories from my mom

KARI ANDERSON

Senior Arts Editor

There is no simple answer to the 

question “What is motherhood?”. 
Many of us think of mothers as 
the figures who have supported us 
our whole lives, from reading us 
books as children to cheering us 
on as adults, through triumphs and 
setbacks. This B-Side makes sure to 
pay tribute to this sacredness. But in 

media, popular culture and life, all 
sorts of moms exist. Some are overtly 
disappointing, while others may get 
away with too much. Some must 
balance conventional motherhood 
with nurturing their work. Some 
fall victim to the ever-growing lens 
of female sexualization that gets 
aimed indiscriminately. But each is 
still a mom. Don’t see what I mean? 
These pieces say it better than I can.

— Andrew Pluta, Senior Arts 

Editor

The Mom B-Side

ISABELLA KASSA
Daily Arts Contributor

MARY ELIZABETH JOHNSON

Daily Arts Writer

ANDREW PLUTA

Senior Arts Editor

The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com

Design by Megan Young

Design by Tamara Turner

Design by SoJung Ham

Design by Tamara Turner

Design by Melia Kenny

M. DEITZ

Digital Culture Beat Editor

 Read more at MichiganDaily.com
 Read more at MichiganDaily.com

 Read more at MichiganDaily.com
 Read more at MichiganDaily.com

