I’m seven days out from my 8-year-old turning 9. For at least a month now, I’ve been in denial. I’ve tried antibiotic ointment, herbal green goop and even patched the two dots on her chest with Band-Aids, hoping they’d return to their former selves — mesas in the desert.
But today I got confirmation. I dialed up my pediatrician’s nurse and she delivered the news I’d been unable to hear until today. The sore dots on my child’s chest are indeed “breast buds,” the first signal of her journey from girlhood into womanhood.
It’s not that I don’t celebrate her passage; it’s just that it’s come a little quicker than I’d planned. After all, I didn’t even recall any breast pain at her age, let alone “breast buds.” I do remember that I was in fourth grade when I began wearing a training bra. But I’m certain my case was more ritual than necessity. My mother probably humored me with a training bra. That, or I incessantly obsessed over the need for a bra, until she finally gave in to my whim.
But with my fourth-grade girlfriends, “breast buds” and/or the lack of them was the hushed topic at every recess, around every merry-go-round, monkey bars and teeter-totter. Who got their first bra? Whose molehill was bigger? And did you know that Lorene is wearing a Double A bra? Although none of us wanted to be first, we certainly didn’t want to be last.
On many levels, “breast buds” work. They are buds that will eventually bloom, hopefully later than sooner. And they are the ultimate buds, companions from here on out, like it or not.
But still, I’m not prepared for today, much like I wasn’t prepared when my in-laws preemptively purchased my child’s first training bra — a purple Mary-Kate and Ashley bra — in kindergarten. That was followed a year or two later by another unauthorized purchase of a full-fledged white, wire-rimmed bra, complete with an appliquéd rose.
Rather than embrace the rush to puberty, I stashed them in the bottom of the laundry barrel where they’ve remained for untold months and years. That is until now, until “breast buds” entered the picture.
Lynn, my child’s nurse, said, “It’s the start of her adventure. Wrap your arms around her when you pick her up from school today and tell her, ‘Welcome to the beginning of womanhood.’ ”
Running through my head, the only words I could muster were, “Breast buds, good God.” But my soon-to-be 9-year-old was all smiles when I delivered the news. For her, it was breaking news and she was ready to shout it from the mountaintop: “Did you hear the news? I have breast buds.” Between the wide-eyed look of amazement and proud parading in front of the full-length mirror, she blurted out:
“Mom, I’m the first one in my class with breast buds. And I’m going to need a bra.”
Later that night we read about the Lost Boys in Sudan. I kissed her goodnight. And before I could go to sleep myself, I trudged out to the garage, rooted to the bottom of the laundry barrel, ready for a new day.
About the author: Nancy, a corporate public relations professional by day, navigates motherhood, some days better than others, under the aging 1930s roof of a pubescent teen, a husband 14 years her senior, two hound dogs and her own midlife menopausal madness.