Booblets and Band-Aids
Posted September 2, 2010on:
My kid’s got BOOBIES.
WHAT THE HELL?!
I mean, the kid’s not STACKED, or anything, but she’s definitely got little buds a’blossom.
She’s in that awkward stage between frilly, little-girl-undershirts and the flat-padded-training-bra. In fact, last year, I had to DRAG my poor, little, ‘precociously-pubescent’ 3rd grader to JC Penney‘s to buy Teenform’s ‘My First Bra’ (which, by the by, is no longer made). A salesclerk led us to a frou-frou, Pepto-pink display of little-girl LINGERIE. She daintily held up a TINKERBELL ‘bralet’. Her expression read ‘Isn’t this just the cutest lil’ thing you’ve ever seen?’
Lady, you want me to buy a bra…BRALET for my kid with a Disney fairy decal spanning the distance of her tiny boob…lets ???
I think not.
I’m sorry, but I taste a bit of bile when I think of WALT DISNEY having any involvement whatsoever with my daughter’s developing breasts.
She ended up with some plain-old truncated cotton tees.
Like she can accessorize with them.
In all fairness to Walt, my true gripe did not stem from his apparent pedophilia. Simply, I could NOT get over the fact that I needed to buy my precious 3rd-grade baby a TRAINING BRA!
Painfully, I clearly remember my own mother draggin’ ME downtown to Brody’s department store to try on my first Teenforms. (For the record, most of my emotional baggage was packed on that first horrific foray into ‘WOMANHOOD’.)
But I was in FIFTH GRADE — studying integers and fractions!
My budding baby’s barely gotta good pencil grip, for Eve’s sake!
To boot, I’d wager my kid could barely DECODE, let alone ultimately see as GOSPEL, the text of Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret – THE Rite-of-Passage-Into-Womanhood BIBLE of my generation, which was covertly passed from girl to girl, flat to barely-buxom, under desk and bus seat for nearly two years of elementary school.
What fresh hormones-in-a-hurry HELL will I haft’a buy in FOURTH GRADE?!
The Training THONG?
It seems, these days, our little girls are blossoming at a much earlier age — statistics report as early as 7 years old!
Why, they haven’t even had the chance to BE little girls! (Actually, I think I’m starting to understand the need for a Tinkerbell bralet now.) But, at the tender age of seven? My heart breaks for these girls who are condemned with ‘Central Precocious Puberty‘.
Whether SassyMama likes it or not, the puberty train’s arriving early, and there’s not slowin’er down.
The other day I sat my daughter down for my tutorial entitled,
“Disguising The Boob-Scratch“.
She’s a fast-learner. No problem whatsoever with the ‘Bait & Scratch’ (which relies heavily on the assumption that she’ll be surrounded by really dumb 4th-grade boys), but I think she still needs some practice in refining her ‘RELEASE’ technique in the tricky-but-satisfying-and-well-worth-the-risk-of-being-seen-by-dumb-fourth-grade-boys ‘Pencil Drop’ maneuver. She needs to focus on releasing the pencil so that it lands within a 5″ radius of her right shoe when she is seated at a school desk. (fyi: as a ‘righty’, using the left hand/left foot combo is an expert maneuver; a left hand/right footer – suicide!)
Bought my girl her first anti-perspirant this week, too. Thank God she won’t have to ‘Smell Like Teen Spirit’.
See, now that our girls are maturing earlier, ‘teen’ just doesn’t fit the market demographic anymore.
Now we have ‘Degree Girl’ — with pink glitter (for today’s gal who stinks but just can’t give up the twinkly-sparkly–rainbow-fairy-dust -phase of childhood)!
She doesn’t stink — yet — mind you, but with the booblets at the engine, I’m guessin’ The Stench is comin’ only a coupl’a cars behind. (sorry, gotta say it: ‘the B. O. Railroad’!)
At the projected female maturation rate, Secret and FDS plan to launch their toddler lines within two years (powder-scent, only).
So, my daughter is padded and pore-plugged and ready for the next stop on the Puberty Express (the parent company of B.O.).
The discovery of it, the abundance of it, and finally, the removal of it. Yippee.
Ridding herself of unwanted body hair soon will be a topic of discussion, if not a demonstration in the fine art of depilation.
My challenge during that little lecture will be in masking my grimace (and requisite cuss) at the sharp, stinging pain of nickin’ the SHIT out’a my own legs. You see, I recently switched from using a ‘man-razor’ (Gillette Mach 3, thank you) to a chick-shaver. I have used a man-razor since middle school because it’s the only weapon strong enough to hack through my living-proof-that-man-evolved-from-ape legs.
So WHY switch NOW? Not by choice, I assure you. I was desperate!
I hadn’t shaved in over a week.
I had a pretty dense, tangled thicket-thing goin’ on, but I had a doctor’s appointment the next day, and was pretty sure she wouldn’t buy my ‘horse-hair chaps’ charade. But because Wal-Mart had the blades locked up in the Fort Knox display case with not one, but two, Beefeaters on guard, and there wasn’t a ‘guest services’ blue-vest-wearin’ clerk in the entire store — I had to grab a pack a’ disposables and git out’a Dodge. I do remember choosing the package based on how many blades it contained — it was gonna take at least 5 of the 7 just to reach my undergrowth. I grabbed a pack o’ Shicks. I dunno. They’re pink. With pretty flowers.
I figure the cutesy, innocuous shaver may allay any fear my child may have about shaving her legs.
After all, nothin’ says ‘Welcome to Womanhood’ like wielding a feminine blade with the sharpness of slivered chert.
My hope is that she will be so mesmerized by the girly-floral decor of the wicked little razor that she won’t even blink when she sees rivulets of her own lifeblood streaming down her little legs in her first attempt.
But then, that brings me to Band-Aids.
The girl screams, seizes with fright and then runs from the room when she spies a Band-Aid in my hand for one of her ‘boo-boos’.
How the HELL will she react when she sees me comin’
with the chicky-chert-Schick?
I think later, much later, I’ll fill’er in on the fact that as women age, their body hair becomes thicker and denser, akin to the horn of the rhino — threatening to take over her face, her ass AND her booblets.