Can I write an interesting Friday post in 13 minutes? Let's find out!!!
Okay, so far? I have nothing. Okay here's something.
My daughter is slowly but surely entering puberty. I wont go into any specifics because she will one day be taller than me and will kick my ass, but I have taken to torturing her.
I say, "Hey! Guess What!" and she goes, "What?" and I go, "PUBERTY!" and she rolls her eyes and tells me how weird I am.
I was relaying this story to my mother and reminisced about how I was too shy to ask for a bra when it was time so Kelly Fitzsimons and I hopped on our bikes and rode down to JC Penney and I bought a bra in a box for $3.50 of allowance money. I hid it from my mom and rinsed it out when I took a shower. Then one day I was trying on clothes (Levi 501s, if memory serves, and a top with ruffles that went from shoulders to waist) and she peeked through the curtain and saw my bra. When we got home, she came in my room and snickered and said, "So lets see this bra of yours" so I handed it over. "I didn't know they made them this small!" Said the woman with the life long A cup. Is it any wonder that I didn't ask my mom to come with me and get me a bra? For such a good mom, she was really terrible about stuff like this.
My mom says that never happened, and that I didn't buy myself my first bra. She does this. She can't remember anything, and assumes that if she can't remember it, it never happened. She couldn't tell me how I did get my first bra, but she was sure I didn't get it on my bike with my friend, Kelly. She finally relented when I pointed out that she is old, and I am young (er) and that I think I know what happened in my own life.
So I am going entirely the other way, by bombarding my daughter with puberty talk, and tampon tutorials, and mortifying her at every turn. I told her the story about how I got my first bra and made her promise not to do the same thing. She promised. And, she hates riding her bike, so I think I'm safe.
10 minutes. How'd I do? Happy Mother's Day!