My Apron. It has shorter and shorter strings. And damn it, I miss them. For every time I have silently screamed "Give me one minute of peace and quiet!" (or sometimes maybe not so silently), I find myself struggling with the tiny steps away that Sister Big is asking for.
Not long ago I was in a workshop when I heard something that frightened me. The average onset of hormonal shift initiating puberty is around nine in girls. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, Excuse me?!? I don't remember much of the next hour of presentation as I internally counted days until the next birthday, and took a few trips down "denial" river, trying to convince myself that our child would be a late entry into this race. Surely we did not have to start talking and thinking about this yet. Right?
And yet...
Recently we took our first tentative forays into pre-puberty conversation and I was both anxious and sad as we had the conversation. First of all, it feels dreadfully important to get it right. This is the foundation and framework by which she will determine what is normal (all of it), and what is okay to ask (any of it), and whether she is "okay" on her journey, (and you are my sweet girl.) And this is the first of many times when she has to be able to ask me anything and I have to be ready. All in all it went smoothly, but I was also amazed by her grace. At one point, as I got temporarily stuck in determining how much information was enough for now, she interrupted me and said "It's okay mom. It's just puberty. It's normal. Nothing to get upset or worried about." When did she learn this gentle assurance? And please, can I take credit for it? Let her have gotten it from me.
We had our moments of hilarity as I tried to provide information on how babies arrive in a non-cesarean birth,(and for those of you who have yet to go down this conversational path, perhaps forgo comparing uterine contractions moving the baby along to squeezing toothpaste from a tube.) And for the love of all that is good and clinical, just skip trying to wade slowly into the water and start with the word vagina. Or as Adele prefers, Minnie-Moo. If not, your child may be left as mine, with the idea that non-cesarean births occur from "another area of the mother's body" and question with no small amount of panic, "You mean one day you open your mouth and a baby flies out?"
And leaving this territory, there is also the pulling away of hands in parking lots, and walking half an aisle away in the grocery store, and the sheer horror that crossed her face when I mentioned that I was invited to stay at the birthday party she was attending. "Mom! NO! I want to do this like a big kid. I don't want you to help." What? When did we get here? I mean, I wasn't even going to be wearing a bathing suit and there was horror. Can you imagine if I had shown up in my matronly, skirted, supportive one-piece? Quarters in the therapy jar my people.
And finally, I cannot get a moment's privacy in this house, or anywhere else I might go. Dressed, nude, bathing, sleeping...it doesn't matter. Bring it on. Mom's door is always open. Even when it was shut. But all of a sudden, this child cannot change her clothes on the same floor as any other member of the household. All I hear throughout our waking hours is "I want privacy." And the stunning double standard is that while she needs privacy, I am allowed none. "Why are you wearing that?" "Why do you do that?" "Why was the door locked?" "Why?"
So, much like childbirth itself, the first contractions are merely the opening act. And like my first contractions, I remember thinking that this was so much easier than what I had been preparing for. And if raising Sister Big is anything like her labor and delivery, I'm in for quite a ride. To quote a new Mama friend who summed up childbirth as succinctly as I have heard it to date; "Labor. Whoa! No joke." And that, my friends, is just the opening act.
Not long ago I was in a workshop when I heard something that frightened me. The average onset of hormonal shift initiating puberty is around nine in girls. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, Excuse me?!? I don't remember much of the next hour of presentation as I internally counted days until the next birthday, and took a few trips down "denial" river, trying to convince myself that our child would be a late entry into this race. Surely we did not have to start talking and thinking about this yet. Right?
And yet...
Recently we took our first tentative forays into pre-puberty conversation and I was both anxious and sad as we had the conversation. First of all, it feels dreadfully important to get it right. This is the foundation and framework by which she will determine what is normal (all of it), and what is okay to ask (any of it), and whether she is "okay" on her journey, (and you are my sweet girl.) And this is the first of many times when she has to be able to ask me anything and I have to be ready. All in all it went smoothly, but I was also amazed by her grace. At one point, as I got temporarily stuck in determining how much information was enough for now, she interrupted me and said "It's okay mom. It's just puberty. It's normal. Nothing to get upset or worried about." When did she learn this gentle assurance? And please, can I take credit for it? Let her have gotten it from me.
We had our moments of hilarity as I tried to provide information on how babies arrive in a non-cesarean birth,(and for those of you who have yet to go down this conversational path, perhaps forgo comparing uterine contractions moving the baby along to squeezing toothpaste from a tube.) And for the love of all that is good and clinical, just skip trying to wade slowly into the water and start with the word vagina. Or as Adele prefers, Minnie-Moo. If not, your child may be left as mine, with the idea that non-cesarean births occur from "another area of the mother's body" and question with no small amount of panic, "You mean one day you open your mouth and a baby flies out?"
And leaving this territory, there is also the pulling away of hands in parking lots, and walking half an aisle away in the grocery store, and the sheer horror that crossed her face when I mentioned that I was invited to stay at the birthday party she was attending. "Mom! NO! I want to do this like a big kid. I don't want you to help." What? When did we get here? I mean, I wasn't even going to be wearing a bathing suit and there was horror. Can you imagine if I had shown up in my matronly, skirted, supportive one-piece? Quarters in the therapy jar my people.
And finally, I cannot get a moment's privacy in this house, or anywhere else I might go. Dressed, nude, bathing, sleeping...it doesn't matter. Bring it on. Mom's door is always open. Even when it was shut. But all of a sudden, this child cannot change her clothes on the same floor as any other member of the household. All I hear throughout our waking hours is "I want privacy." And the stunning double standard is that while she needs privacy, I am allowed none. "Why are you wearing that?" "Why do you do that?" "Why was the door locked?" "Why?"
So, much like childbirth itself, the first contractions are merely the opening act. And like my first contractions, I remember thinking that this was so much easier than what I had been preparing for. And if raising Sister Big is anything like her labor and delivery, I'm in for quite a ride. To quote a new Mama friend who summed up childbirth as succinctly as I have heard it to date; "Labor. Whoa! No joke." And that, my friends, is just the opening act.
No comments:
Post a Comment