Within the past year, my thirteen-year-old daughter’s body has changed, rapidly.
Hello, hormone, hell.
Obviously, this came as no surprise to me.
At eleven, (YES ELEVEN), I was cursed with a set of jugs (Although since have been ruined by gravity, and baby mouths of past, engulfing my areola). These breasts generated unwanted attention from the boys. It’s hard to believe an eleven-year-old boy can undo a bra strap from the desk behind you especially when I had issues getting the damn thing off in the privacy of my bedroom.
My daughter hasn’t had the same experience; no one is grabbing her bra strap, apparently things have changed. And here I am doing my best to parent alongside those changes. It’s not easy.
My daughter has embraced the hormonal fluxes better than I ever did. Maybe it’s because we have an open line of communication when it comes to her changing body or my constant badgering and relentless “Do you want to talk about anything?”1
Regardless, learning the hormonal parenting ropes, sucks.
With each change, I find myself challenged to prepare her as best I can. As her breast’s quickly become, well, breasts dammit, and as Shakira said, those hips. I find myself caught in a juxtaposition, how do I make this transition a smooth one, or is that even a possibility?
I’m not piloting the parenting helicopter by any means, I’m proud of her, not only is her confidence envious, but the acceptance of her developing body is something to be celebrated. My goal is to help, not hover.
The teen years are hard on parents, what I want is to prepare my daughter for what’s to come, but I feel I’m failing miserably, each awkward and embarrassing conversation at a time.
A couple of years back she was introduced to her pubic hair; I believe it came as a shock to her. As I am, how do you say, brazillioned? Either way, we worked that out as quickly as possible. She will not be removing the hair down there. For. A. Long. Time. The problem is I wasn’t prepared for a conversation of that magnitude. Not once did I read, ‘she will ask you why you don’t have pubic hair,’ in any of those damn parenting books.
Dealing with her changing body is only a part of the challenge, just add teen angst and hormones to the mix.
The hormones are here to stay; they coincide nicely with mood swings that put Queen Mary I of England’s rampage to shame. However, I want to prepare her, or at the very least explain to her why she feels like going on a killing spree while eating ice cream and crying over the size of her big toe.
Instead, we fight, which results in both of us crying while eating ice cream and contemplating a killing spree. Bringing me to the quick realization, do not talk to her about her mood swings, while twisting dramatically within my swinging state.
Mood swings have become one of the least of my worries, what do I do about Aunt Flo?
At thirteen, she has not met her monthly asshole, I was twelve when the red vixen interrupted my birthday party, so I’ve done my best as a parent to prepare her for the upcoming red wedding. Not only do I have emergency kits for her to use in every corner of the house, but at any place she spends time.
I have also educated her, plausibly in an oversharing, (too much information Mom, gross you’re embarrassing me), manner. Perhaps I’m doing it wrong; all I know is I wasn’t prepared to meet the red-headed-river when she showed up at my front door. For fuck sakes, I called my vagina a plume ( Thanks, Mom ) for the first ten years of my life.
As she grows into a Woman, each day I find myself facing a new challenge, keeping up with her biological changes has quickly become the tough part. I guess I won’t know until she’s twenty if I royally screwed this kid up.
If I’ve learned anything at all, it is she will come to me when she really needs my expertise or lack there of, hopefully.
It’s feasible I may fuck this poor child up with too much information, maybe with too little. I don’t know. In the end, I just want to prepare my daughter as best I can and if that means asking her all the awkward questions about her Vagina, then so be it.
Now can someone pass me the ice cream, I am extremely said about the size of my big toe.
About the author: Darla Halyk is the Mom of a Teenage boy and Girl. She is a lover of verbal irony, which currently drives her two children insane. You can find her writing on the Elephant Journal, Sammiches and Psyche Meds, Mrs.Muffin Top, Original Bunker Punks and has been featured on Blogher. She is a regular contributor to Say It With A Bang and currently writes for her blog at NewWorldMom. Bringing a fresh, honest and humorous take on parenting, women’s issues, relationships, divorce, and life, in general.
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1 Comment
My theory is that therapy is inevitable….it might be for her, maybe for you…too soon to tell. No matter what you do, what you decide to share or not share, someone will likely need therapy to deal with it at some point! My last one is 16…I can totally relate to all of this!