The Raging Boobies
By: Beverly Slavik Rodriguez | Date: October 2 2016
I couldn’t understand where all of our toilet paper was going. Sure, my girls aren’t exactly frugal in their daily usage and I’ve had to plunge the toilet more than once due to over enthusiastic hygiene practices, but I could have sworn I had just replaced the roll yesterday.
Then my youngest, who can always be counted on to rat out her sister, eagerly informed me that the missing TP was being smuggled under my oldest daughter’s shirt. Sure enough, when I walked into her bedroom, there was my 10 year old child walking around looking like a certain famous country music singer known for her well endowed chest.
I wish I could tell you that I handled it calmly or that I was bemused by her antics and gave her some nurturing advice. Nope.
Instead I flipped out on her about wasting precious resources.
“Toilet paper costs money and money doesn’t grow on trees!” I said.
“Well, toilet paper comes from trees.” she replied.
“Well you just try to make your own homemade toilet paper out of trees then!” I said.
And then she said fine, she would, and I said well go ahead and we both stormed off into separate rooms.
Damn, she’s good.
My pre-teen daughter is exceptionally gifted at pushing my buttons thereby reducing my arguments to the equivalent of nah-nah, na nah nah! and “Because I said so!”
But it’s definitely happening. We all knew it was coming, and like global warming we all ignored the science.
My little girl is about to turn into a walking, talking hormone.
Later, after stuffing the softball sized wads of Charmin into a basket on top of the toilet tank with express instructions that she didn’t get to use the “nice” toilet paper until she used up her falsies, I went to pour myself a large glass of wine to mull it over.
Lately it seems all of our conversations lead to the topic of her growing breasts. It usually goes something like this:
Me: “Would you like toast or cereal for breakfast?”
Pre-teen: “Toast. When are my boobs going to come in?”
Apparently over the summer, one of my child’s classmates got boobs. And wouldn’t you know it’s also her arch rival! I didn’t believe it until one day during after-school pickup,
I spotted what appeared to be the 10 year old version of Pam Anderson across the parking lot. She’s definitely not smuggling toilet paper under her shirt.
I tried to tell my kid that her time would come and that we all grow at different paces and that her friend is probably a little shy about being the first one in their class to get hers. I tried to tell her that once she gets boobs, she can never go back. She looked at me from the passenger seat and rolled her eyes. Who am I trying to kid?
OF COURSE she wants breasts!
I wanted breasts at that age too. We all did! I constantly measured myself, constantly asked my own mom when I would get them, insisted weekly that I needed to go bra shopping, and I will admit, I even used rolled up socks under my clothes to see what I would look like (much less wasteful than toilet paper)!
Soon I really will have to take her bra shopping. I will have to explain about periods and cramps and all of the joys of being a girl. Before long I’ll be coaching her on falling in love and recovering from her first heartbreak. I’ll be the one to teach her how to drive. I’ll be right next to her as we visit colleges and at her side watching with baited breath as she opens acceptance letters. I’ll be there no matter what the future holds because that’s what moms do. We stick with our kids through it all.
My little girl is growing up and although I’m scared as hell to let it happen, just like all mothers eventually learn, you just can’t stop those raging boobies.
About the Author
Beverly Slavik Rodriguez is a single mom of two sassy little girls who test her sanity daily. She is currently researching the relationship between motherhood and Stockholm Syndrome. You can read more about her and the shenanigans she gets up to at her fledgling blog: singleplusdependents.com