There it was, staring me straight in the face, a giant mess of long bushy pubic hair. How was this even possible when her breasts were nothing more than two milk chocolate buttons?
No one had prepared me for this. I’d bet my vibrator and monthly wine subscription that there is an inverse relationship between the age of your kids and the amount of advice and articles written to guilt —I mean guide you through their various milestones.
As my eldest approached tweendom, I was warned about closed doors and an exponential increase in snarky comments —basically a whole lotta attitude served up on a silver platter. I felt mostly prepared for the fact that they would no longer think the sun shone out of my arse and that I would need to reconsider my ethics with regards to incentivising the younger sister to report back to me anything remotely questionable.
Not only was I not prepared, but I had also been lulled into a false sense of security by my daughter’s pediatrician who had assured me, based on my daughter’s weight and her rigorous gymnastics regimen, that she wouldn’t face puberty for a number of years.
You’d think I would have some sort of recollection of what age I cultivated my own pubic garden but the only memories I have are thrusting my arms back and forth chanting Margaret’s “I must, I must, I must increase my bust…” with my own plea to God and subsequently giving him thanks when I discovered my own little swollen buds one hot summer night as I slept stark naked in front of our air conditioner. But the emergence of ‘hair down there’ had been clean wiped away from my slate.
As far as my kids are concerned, I now see the warning signs were there but in my ignorance, they didn’t register. Rather than ponder why the girls no longer begged to shower with me at night, I rejoiced at my new-found liberty to kick up my feet and indulge in some pretty little lies episodes, pinot noir in hand. Instead of wondering why they now brought their undies to the bathroom vs streaking around the house, I celebrated no longer begging them to remove their buttholes from my pillows.
So there I was, drifting down a lazy river of ignorance in my blissful state, while my eleven-year-old sprouted a vulvic chia-pet overnight.
When she accidentally presented it to me that fateful night, I freaked the fuck out. My heart started racing and I was overcome with nausea. I am clueless if this is a normal mother’s reaction or if I am some sad soppy sort who can’t let go of my little girl but clearly my blaming hormones in food for her slightly swollen buds had just been me packing my bags and attempting to immigrate to the land of Denial.
I salute those of you who weather this change composed and ready with pubic grooming advice to hand out. And for the rest of us who find ourselves in shock and grieving the loss of innocence, know that you are not alone and like all losses, time will ease the pain.
Isabella Tomoe
