Spring Training?

This is my disclaimer. I have permission to write this by my oldest daughter, who for today’s purposes will be known as Esther. Yes, she picked the name. She has allowed me to share this story because she figured not everyone in the whole world would read this. Maybe not the whole world, but certainly her whole world. Don’t tell her that, please.

Esther brought something to my attention recently of which I was blissfully unaware. She is rapidly approaching puberty. I know, I know. She is almost 9 and a half. And things start happening. You know, body parts change. I am just now adjusting to the mood changes that she subjects us to on a daily basis. I thought that would be enough for a month or two, but no, she has to physically mature while she emotionally decompensates. And kids today, they want everything faster, at an earlier age. Cell phones, contact lenses, tattoos. They are in such a hurry to grow up, despite everything we as parents might do to keep them children just a little bit longer.

In short, Esther is starting to get her boobies. Now, we are not talking about a full grown rack. And lucky for all of us, we are not even talking about (blech) breast buds. Yuck. Who wants to talk about that? I feel for all those 10-14 year old girls who are starting to develop, harboring those little walnuts under their t-shirts for all the world to see. Well, maybe I don’t “feel” for them. Maybe I just empathize. I don’t remember getting my boobies when I was a girl. I remember when they were there, however.

One memory in particular stands out. I was ten years old at the time, and I went on a field trip in the fifth grade. I was wearing my dorky teacher’s patrol outfit, which consisted of a white short sleeved button down shirt and pleated navy skirt, complimented by navy knee high socks with a gold tassel on the side. I was proud to be wearing this outfit of honor in public, showing how special I was in the sea of regular kids as we stomped our way through the Jacksonville Coliseum to see some special show that I can’t remember at all. My shirt gapped a bit in the front, but I was certain that my white lightly padded training bra wasn’t visible to my classmates. But Terry, another patrol who had dark curly hair and lips like Tweety Bird’s beak, and who I mistakenly thought was my friend, decided to make sure everyone knew I was wearing a training bra. He spilled his red drink all over my white shirt, which became transparent with a slight pinkish hue, as if I were backlit in the red light district. I was mortified and humiliated, and I had to wear my shirt for the rest of the day, branded with a scarlet letter of Hawaiian punch.

I never did feel proud or excited to have boobs when I was a kid, but I am not Esther, who takes pride in things that cause other girls to run crying to their rooms. She informed me, while standing naked, waiting for the water to warm up for her shower, that she needed to go bra shopping. I asked her what for, and she frowned at me.

“For these,” she said, pointing at her raisin like nipples.
“What about them?”
“Mom,” she said as formally as a naked kid can say, “I am getting my breasts.”
I looked down at them and then quickly looked away. “I don’t see anything.”
“Look closer. One is bigger than the other.”
I didn’t want to inspect them but I looked closer, trying to pretend I was looking at something else, like unusual buttons or maybe gumdrops. But honestly, they looked the same. Like all kid nipples, flat and even and tiny. “They don’t look any different to me,” I said.
“Well, they feel different. They hurt.”
Now, Esther is no fool. She knows that I will act if pain is involved.
“They do?”I asked.
“Yes, they hurt when my t-shirts rub against them, even my nightgown.”
“Well, okay then. We’ll go shopping this week,” I told her, leaving her to inspect her little nubbins privately.

A few days later, we found ourselves at Target. We made a bee-line to the children’s underwear department, and I was shocked at what they had. It wasn’t just a rack of panties, training bras, and undershirts; it was a full blown lingerie department. Children should have a limited selection of undergarment options, consisting of white little girl granny panties, popular cartoon characters in appropriately girlie color combinations, or maybe some days of the week panties with fruits or horses on them. But since all little girl clothing is influenced by illegal sex trade and Britney Spears, underwear for little girls is now whorish enough that if you took a photo of your kid in her undies, you can be guaranteed that the Feds would show up less than an hour after you post it on Snapfish. They have briefs and bikinis and even boy shorts for girls. I didn’t see any thongs, but for all I know, they might have been out. And near where undershirts and camisoles should be, they had, I kid you not, push up bras with little padded cups. I assume that the padding is for nipple coverage and not creating Playboy style cleavage, but I can’t be certain. Esther immediately reached for the push-ups.

“I like these,” she said.
“Like hell,” I told her. “You have to actually have boobies for these. What about these sports bras?” I pointed to a selection of spandex tops that looked just like women’s sports bras, only much, much smaller.
“Too sporty,” she said.
“Look, Esther, you really just need something that is comfortable, that will protect your tender...um...that cuts down on the friction. How about these?”
I held up a plain white cotton bra top that looked more like a half camisole. It was sweet and plain without any under wires or shaping or anything sparkly. “See, Esther, they have some cute ones, with little pink polka dots and, look, a purple one with frogs on it.” Yes, bras for children. Nothing was labeled training bra at all, and I wondered to myself how a single father could navigate this scenario that I could barely handle. Without any more input from me, Esther picked out some cute girlie bras, and we left the store with six small reminders that my daughter is growing up.

She got home and ran upstairs with her bag, to take her bras out and remove all their plastic tags and touch them and organize them. She hung them up in her closet on their little plastic hangers, the same closet where she is unable to hang her jackets or her robe. She put one on immediately and sighed contentedly, as if it was the one thing that completed her.

I don’t know if those bras are really all that comfortable, or if she is pleased that I took her seriously enough to buy her new undergarments. But man, is she proud. Every night, she selects a new one, laying it out with her clothes for the next school day. She tends to have one strap conspicuously showing from the neck of her shirt, in case anyone is unaware of what is going on underneath. And the other night, she even slept in one, since her night gown caused too much rubbing. I guess I should be glad that the idea of something rubbing under her nightgown disturbs her. I know it disturbs me.