From C to A, How the Mighty Have Shrunk

When my daughter was born she was a ham-fisted, bald angry little baby, annoyed with being forcefully ejected from her comfortable apartment.

Then she grew to be a still bald, chubby little curtain climber who took every opportunity to explore her space while inducing panic attacks in her momma as I'd find her sitting on top of the refrigerator emptying out our cookie jar or sitting on the kitchen table poking holes in all the mandarin oranges after she looked me out of the house while I was bringing in groceries and her baby brother as I stood pounding at the kitchen window trying to convince her to unlock the darn door.

By the time she grew hair, she was a full-fledged hurricane, running dominion over her brother, her parents and the family dog.

Now she is a longhaired, skinny teenager who still thinks she is the boss of everyone.

I wonder where she got that trait from? Sayeth her docile and easy-going mother.

Nothing about this is particularly surprising, as kids grow. It's what they do. Whether you like it or not. I was a kid once, and I grew.

But Fric, she's almost done growing. At almost 15, her growth curve has long since slowed and suddenly, instead of springing taller like her younger brother is doing every second of the day, she is starting to fill out.

My baby is starting to look like a woman. In fact, since I've dropped all the extra weight I'd picked up when I busted my back, my baby looks more like a woman than I do.

My vanity is taking a hit. I'm starting to resemble a rather haggard pre-pubescent boy who ate one too many ice cream cones while she is morphing out of the cocoon of awkwardness and into lady-hood.

I'm not jealous. Okay, maybe a little. I'm human. Judge me. Just don't do it near me or I'll thump you.

Yesterday, I was getting dressed and my daughter barged into my room just as I was shrugging into my shirt.  We have an open door policy and let's face it, my kids have seen me more often without clothes than actually wearing any, and so it wasn't a big deal as I was standing before her half naked with my head stuck in the neck hole of my shirt as I struggled to find the arm holes.

"Um Mom?"

"Ya?" I said as I yanked the shirt over my nose, accidentally ripping off my glasses, because I always forget to take them off before pulling on a shirt.

I adjusted my spectacles and noticed she was staring at my chest area.

"What is it? Is the shirt dirty?" I asked as I peered down to see if there was a stain on the shirt I just donned.

"Um nothing," she blushed before launching into a diatribe of junior high politics that made my head spin. I listened to her as I pulled on my jeans and then walked into the bathroom to tidy up my hair I had mussed as I was putting my shirt on.

I listened to her prattle on about her day as she tucked her hair behind her ear and I marveled at what a pretty young woman she was turning into.

Just as Fric was leaving the room, she stopped, twirled around and started again, "Ummm." Again. All the while staring at my boobs.

"What is it kid? Seriously. You are starting to give me a complex. Spit it out woman."

"Okay, it's just I noticed that you may need a new bra. Yours gapes." She blushed to the roots of her blonde hair.

"Ya, I know. I've lost all this weight and my boobs ran away to go be with some other woman when I wasn't looking. I have to go bra shopping."

"Oh, okay. Well, as long as you know," she replied and then beat a hasty retreat.

I finished applying on my make up and just as I was putting on my earrings she walked back into my room.

"Here you go Mom. Try this." In her hand was one of her bras. A TRAINING bra. "It's too small for me."

"You're kidding, right?" I scoffed as I looked at her like she just grew an extra set of eyes.

"No. You always said wearing a properly fitted bra was important. Try it."

"Fric, for God's sake, it's lime green with zebra stripes. I'm not wearing that. And I'm sure it won't fit." Like, AS IF.

"Well, it wouldn't hurt to try it. It's not really a training bra. It's an A cup," she said as she stared at my non-existent boobs again and then dropped the offending item on my bed and walked away.


Call it what you want darling, but a bra that small is like a bike with training wheels. I'm too old for training wheels, darn it.

I peered underneath my shirt and saw my ill-fitting bra and saw how badly it didn't fit and sighed. So I tried her bra on.

It fit. Perfectly.

That's right. My name is Tanis, I'm 35 years old and I fit my 14 year old daughter's too-small-for-her-it's-not-a-training-bra-Mom-bra.

Oh ya. I'm rocking the lime green zebra print right now as I type this.

If you need me, I'm out looking for any shred of my self-esteem and the remains of my womanhood.

Feel free to send kleenex. Not only will it help mop up my tears but apparently, I'm back to the stuffing my bra stage of life.


*God bless the inventors of push up bras and chicken cutlet inserts.*