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[downplaying]

My first conscious memory is of my mother. It remains very clear in my mind, even today.

She had given me one of my sisters’ dolls, to keep me occupied while she was cooking. It was a Barbie doll, in the design that they sported during the late 60s, waists so thin that they looked like they would snap at any wrong move and colours limited to the blond or brown of her hair. I was extremely fascinated by that Barbie’s waist, its unnatural depiction of the female shape. As I sat there on the floor, I would compare it to my mother’s and – completely ignorant of public opinion as only children can be – my mother would come out the winner. Her waist rounder and softer. Wider. Formed by rustic French cuisine and just the very fact that she had given birth to all three of us.

Eventually, my sister came up to me to reclaim the doll which was named Sophie, I seem to recall. I, on my part, refused to give it up and a fight broke out. I ended up pulling the typical spoiled-little-brother card and screamed for my mother who took mercy on me and promised my sister a new doll in return for the one she would have to give up to my advantage. My sister was talked – gently – into agreeing and agreed most likely because Sophie was an old doll, another model holding all the appeal of novelty. So the end result was that I got Sophie with the waist of a wasp and when I went to bed that night, she lay next to my pillow, reminding me of my mother whose waist was nowhere near wasp proportions, but who kept me safe and warm in a world that would soon change completely.

- The Ladies’ Man, Claude Bérubé