Ostrich in a Pod: When Puberty Arrives Too Early for Mom

It was around the time of my little girl's tenth birthday that I realized my denial surrounding her growing up was no longer working. At the time I blamed myself for her development. I was the one who had passed on the early development gene that had rendered her taller, and dare I say shapelier, than every other girl in her class. I had knew that her height was inevitable; both her father and I are tall. The other thing though, full frontal development, completely blind-sided me with its arrival.

On a Sunday two years prior I walked downstairs headed for the laundry room when I caught a sideways glance of my little girl that caused me to do a double take. She was on the couch and glued to the television as usual, but something about her was very different. There was a rise in her chest that I had not noticed before and was convinced it had appeared over night, despite my best friend's later assurances that it had not. I was stunned. Of course, at the sight of this apparition I did what any reasonable and responsible mother would do, I proceeded to the laundry room to unload the dryer and bury my head in the sand. It's just baby fat. Besides, she's only eight; practically a baby. I believed my rationale, but just to be on the safe side I started phasing out cow's milk from our diet in case there was any truth to the stories linking added hormones to early development.

Life rolled on in our house and I continued dwelling in ignorant bliss. I resolved that what I had seen was a trick of the light; just bad couch positioning. That was, until the other shoe dropped. A few months later we were setting out to run the usual Saturday errands when my daughter came bouncing down the stairs. At the sight of her I froze and, I'm fairly certain, momentarily stopped breathing. The rise in her chest that I had noticed earlier that summer had grown. Even worse, they had taken on shape. My little girl strolled past me on route the car, her movement snapping me out of my paralysis. I grabbed the keys and headed out behind her doing my best to convince myself that it was the motion of running down stairs. I would have been quite content with my explanation were it not for the detour we had to make to my mother's house.

Within ten seconds of our arrival (a new record for my mother) she flatly stated the obvious. "You need to go out and buy my granddaughter a training bra right now." While my little girl's face lit up at the mention, mine was transformed into a look of horror and disbelief. I argued that a training bra was unnecessary, "She'll be fine with undershirts." To which mom replied in her blunt, all be it loving tone, "She was past undershirts three months ago, daughter." I was crushed. Promising to pick up a couple of Trainers I departed in defeat. While my little girl chattered her excitement the entire drive to the mall, the same line kept replaying in my head. She's still just a baby. Just a baby!

Our shopping expedition was interesting to say the least. I fondly refer to that day as 'The Great Tug of War', with me on one side with the shapeless chest flatteners and my little girl on the other with the miniature brassieres. We met somewhere in the middle and spent the rest of the afternoon whizzing thru errands so she could return home and try on her "bras". My repeated attempts to correct that they were "Trainers" fell on deaf ears. While she was locked in her room checking out her new shape in the mirror I retired to my own room to return my head into the comforting hole in the sand.

A mere six months later it was obvious to anyone with eyes that Trainers were no longer working for my little girl. It was time, once again, for me to extract my head from the hole and head to the mall. We were officially going bra shopping. It was excruciating. Much like last time, my head played the familiar though slightly updated tune. But she's my baby! MY BABY!!!!!

Also like last time, we played tug of war. This time though the battlefield was far more treacherous. My little girl was a B-cup, which placed her in the teen sizes. She smiled and I cringed. We bickered over styles and colors the majority of which were far too grown up for a girl her age. Sheer, lace, padded, and any color other than white, pink or baby blue were non-negotiable. After much wrangling our purchases were made. We returned home where my little girl spent a considerable amount of time in her room trying on her wears. I retreated to my hole to bury my head once more and prayed for reverse growth spurts.

Several months after her tenth birthday things started to change dramatically. My little girl complained of headaches and nausea. Shiny pimples had begun to rear their ugly heads. I wanted to remain buried in my 'Oh so familiar' hole of denial but I could not. Reluctantly I mentioned the recent changes to her pediatrician after her physical. I asked, clinging to one last ray of hope, if he thought it was too soon. His response was deflating, "Not at all. I've seen girls as young as eight." I drove home stunned.

At the time of the bra episode I was unable to pinpoint why I was so upset. As I drove home from the doctor's office that afternoon I was finally able to put words to what had become a recently recurring emotion; Loss. I am a single mother and have been since my daughter's birth. For as long as she's been alive it had always been me and my little girl. She and I were life buddies; peas in a pod.

Perhaps her budding chest had signaled the beginning of the end to me. Mornings spent curling up in bed with mom and her favorite teddy just because. The hours spent playing Classroom with her dolls, as I stood silently behind her room door listening to her instructing Barbie and Babar. The embarrassing nicknames I called her as I tickled her into stitches before she went to sleep at night. Those were but a sampling of the many moments my little girl and I had shared. Moments that, I was unwilling to admit, had become fewer and further between as her body grew and her voice deepened. Unlike the bra episode however, with this new change there was no longer a familiar tune playing in my head. Even my inner voice had run out of objections. My little girl was growing up and it was time that mom did too.

So what does a mom do when denial no longer works? I can't speak for all moms (or dads for that matter) but this mom headed to my nearest bookstore and purchased an arsenal of "what's happening to your body and how to talk about it" books. I did NOT trust my own words. I set aside some time to read our books and talk. My little girl was both eager and reluctant. My emotional state was far more uncertain but I wore a smile and braved on.

We talked about puberty and what it all meant. I shared my own girlhood experience which, in hindsight, was a funny story. I had not thought about it until that moment, but I was only eleven when my body changed. Perhaps she wasn't so young after all. The more we talked, the more I relaxed. It felt as though I was breathing for the first time in two years. At the end we hugged and kissed and my little girl went off to read some of her books on her own. I retired to my room to reflect.

I had to admit that what was meant to be a teaching moment for my little girl ended up being a growth experience for me. Was I happy with her body's changes; absolutely not. Could I live with it? I didn't really have a choice. Was I ready for what lay ahead; probably not. But one thing was certain; I couldn't afford to bury my head in the sand anymore. The teen years were fast approaching and I believe many kids find themselves wandering down unfamiliar and sometimes dangerous roads all because their parents (willingly or not) ignored the fact that their children were maturing and in desperate need of parental guidance.

The time had come for me to face the hard truth; my little girl was almost gone and in her place stood a budding young lady. And while she was an older, taller, and still developing pea, she was still a pea who would always need her mom. With that truth I conceded there was no longer any room for an ostrich in our pod, and finally withdrew my head from the sand for the last time.