Starting at about age 11 and finishing up at age 14, Peggy and I journeyed through a land called Puberty. She had always said I could talk to her. I knew at any time I could climb up and sit with her as she read in bed. The talks we had on that pencil-post mahogany bed were deep.
I could share anything. I could ask anything. It is why I consider a pencil post mahogany bed THE Mommy bed. And it is why I have one myself.
This is what I looked like in 5th grade.
Problem was, other girls looked ever-so-slightly more advanced. And because I am competitive on every level, I needed to know I was slightly advanced too.
What I am talking about is a training bra. I knew I needed one. Carey had one. Allison had one. Meg had one. I needed one.
A training bra is comprised of two flat cotton triangles. These triangles serve NO purpose except to offer visible straps at the shoulders and across the back. The back straps made a THWACK sound when the 5th grade boys pulled them and set them free.
So I climbed up in Peggy’s bed to inquire about purchasing a Training Bra. I had formed my argument. In true legal fashion, I offered my best argument first.
Mom. I need a bra.
Peggy put down her book and sort of chewed the corner of her mouth, stifling a smile.
Ashby, why do you need a bra?
Mom, I need a bra in PE.
Ashby, why do you need a bra in PE??
Because when I run track during PE, my breasts bounce.
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| 5th Grade - with my cousins, breasts bouncing. |
Peggy gazed at me a moment.
Show me how they bounce.
Having no other choice but to offer a demonstration, I folded my legs up under my bottom and bounced on Mom’s bed, hoping that my bouncing breasts could be visible from outside my tshirt – proof that I needed a training bra!
If you are willing to do that, by all means, let’s get you a training bra.
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| More 5th grade, more cousins, more bouncing breasts. |
Months later, I noticed something. Underneath the skin of my left nipple, there was a mass. A swollen mass. A hard, tender swollen nickel-sized mass. Underneath the right nipple, there was nothing.
Oh boy. I had to tell Mom. This could not be good.
Peggy is at her best in a crisis and she knew a crisis when she saw one. There was a cancerous tumor under her daughter’s left nipple! We had to call in the experts immediately. An appointment was immediately scheduled with the pediatrician. I sat there as the pediatrician poked on my left-sided tumor.
Mrs. Lawton, your daughter is developing Breast Buds.
But it is only on one side!!! Are you sure it is not cancer?!!! We need to biopsy it NOW.
No Mrs. Lawton, we do not need to biopsy it, it is a Breast Bud. The right breast will catch up.
How completely mortifying. Me, a doctor’s kid. Me, PEGGY’S kid! Requiring a pediatrician’s left breast-bud diagnosis.
Oh. It’s been so long I don’t remember it. So they don’t come in at the same time? Oh. How interesting. Oh.
Well, in that case, I think we should call her “Buddy.”
Peggy called me Buddy for the next few years.
In 6th grade (11-12) things were so confusing. The breast buds were in full force. In addition to my training bra, I knew I needed a lavender ESPRIT sweatshirt if I wanted to be cool. Peggy argued with me at the Belk’s counter once about the importance of lavender– but ultimately conceded.
She helpfully told the Belk’s cashier why she let me make this important choice:
Afterall, Buddy is shaving her legs.
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| Lavender Sweatshirts. |
Even though I was shaving my legs and wearing cotton triangles over my (now) two breast buds, I kinda still wanted to be a kid! In fact, Peggy gave me a Barbie doll for Christmas when I was in the 6th grade!
I wanted to sit at the grownup table, but I also wanted to play on the swingset~
This hormone warfare did not last long. By the beginning of 7th grade, I knew that I was definitely no longer a little girl. I was a little woman who curled her Sun-In hair, wore acid washed jeans, and pouted relentlessly.
I knew I was important. I knew my opinion counted. I knew everything. And I especially knew that my mother was monumentally embarrassing.
I will make my own decisions, By God. I am mature. I will have a mature haircut and an unwavering devotion to scarves:
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| Wearing a scarf at an extended family visit. |
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| Unfortunate haircut. Patented pout. |
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| Millie Lewis "modeling" class - and more scarves. |
It was about this time that Peggy felt the need to ask me about pubic hair.
Buddy, do you have any pubic hair?
Mom.
Well, I know you must have a few.
Mom.
Like 8 or 9 of them at least . . .
Mom!
Do you know which one grew in first??
Mom, GROSS!
Could you pull it out? The first one I mean.
Oh. My. God. MOM!
I want to put it in the scrapbook.
God, Mom. SHUT UP!!
For posterity.
Mom, go away and leave me ALONE!
You’re right, you probably don’t remember which one was first. Just pull any of them and we will pretend it was the first one.
If the changes in my body and Peggy’s teasing weren’t enough, my appearance was about to undergo another drastic change. I had determined the 30 year old lawyer haircut was not suitable for a 14 year old. So I grew my hair out.
And as it grew, I noticed it was incredibly, obscenely, CURLY. No one in my family had curly hair. I had never had curly hair. Why did I have curly hair now??? It was so distressing. Because what was “in” was bobbed hair turned under at the ends and your bangs curled in the shape of a flower.
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| Lovely. |
It distressed me greatly. I would ask God – why is my hair so curly?? When I received no heavenly response, I asked my mother.
why – sniff – why is my hair so curly???
Well, I have been giving this a lot of thought.
Oh lord.
I’ve been thinking.
God Mom.
I’ve decided that all the hair on your body is connected. It runs throughout your body.
Mom, shut up.
No, I’m serious. I really think that the hair on your head travels through your chest and tummy and down and down and it is even connected to your pubic hair. They are all the same hairs.
God Mom, forget it! I don’t want to talk about it anymore.
And what happened is this: when you entered PUBERTY there was all this tension. Remember how tense you have been?? You have been a holy terror. I was thinking you must have internal tension.
SHUT UP.
Well the tension was in your body too! And when you sprouted hair down there . . . . the tension in your body was SO GREAT . . . that the hair on your head, well it grew in CURLY.
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| Not funny. |
I have vowed not to do this to my daughter. She is in 6th grade. I have promised my husband that puberty is not fodder for comedic relief. No matter how nasty this child is to me during the next few years, I will not tease her. I will guide her to womanhood with dignity. I do NOT call her Buddy.
Except the other day we were in a restaurant.
See my Buddy, she ordered a Mr. Pibb. And because I like to eat lunch without a drink poured in my lap, I intend to have my children drink out of Styrofoam lidded cups until they go to college.
It was a delightful lunch. Buddy had the shrimp feta pizza and I had the greek wrap. She needed a Mr. Pibb refill. The waiter was compliant with all DHEC regulations – he did not remove the lid of Buddy’s Styrofoam cup with his grubby hands.
Instead he said:
Sweetie, can you take your top off for me?
I tried to behave. I did. Before I could look at my IPhone for the 74th time, I blurted out:
Mag, he just asked you to take your top off!
Mom.
Mag, he knows about the BOOBIES!!
MOM!!
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| 9th grade dance, with a Barbie beforehand. |
