Mom had “conversations” with my pre-verbal self to encourage the concepts of speaking and conversations (she recorded one such session. I squealed a lot as a baby…). I’m pretty sure the dog taught me to walk (in my parents’ defense, it was a lot more fun to grab Cinnamon Ann’s floofy tail and follow her around than it was to hold my parents’ hands). I ended up being the only kid in my kindergarten class who already knew how to read and knew my numbers (I did, however, have quite a bit of trouble with the Pledge of Allegiance). And I decided I was ready for a sleepover at age three, when I confronted my godmother with the fabulous idea that I would come spend the weekend at her house (my parents told her she could refuse--she didn’t. We made cookies.)
There are, however, some “firsts” that are a little more…delicate…to discuss. Like “The Talk.” Family lore has it that when I was born, my dad turned to my mom and said “Oh, thank God, you get to talk to her about that stuff.” I got The Talk when I was nine. Came home from school one day to a stack of books--some of them with quite detailed illustrations. After that particular conversation with my mom, I was equal parts fascinated and appalled. Boys had what down there?! And they stuck it where?! Wait…you mean you and Daddy…euwwwwww!!
In fifth grade, our school gave us an institutional version of The Talk. The female gym teacher gathered all the girls together and showed us a film about the various growing-up-related wonders we would experience. I remember they gave us samples of sanitary products with directions that sounded a lot like they came from an Ikea package (insert Peg A carefully into Slot B--more or less). The poor 4th grade teacher--by virtue of being the only adult male in the school besides the custodian--collected all the boys. They got to watch a different video about what they could expect. And then we swapped videos. It was brutal. At least I knew what was coming. This was the first time some of my classmates had heard it. I think one girl threw up.
I couldn’t wait to grow up. Aside from obvious perks like finally being able to permanently banish broccoli from the dinner table, I would get boobs. Boobs. In an attempt to encourage Momma Nature to hurry up, I did daily bust-increasing exercises (courtesy of Ms. Judy Blume’s Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret). I closely inspected my legs (and other areas) for any hints of hair. And I drove my long suffering mother crazy asking some seriously stupid questions. For the record, no, you cannot insert anything into your lady parts and have it travel through your body and come out of your mouth. It doesn’t work in reverse, either.
I eventually grew boobs (a little on the small side). And hair (shaving is a PITA). And acquired a little monthly friend (the less said about her, the better). On the plus side, however, I definitely have curves that my BF appreciates. I’m taller than most of my friends. And--as it turns out--I rather like broccoli now.
If I could go back and tell my little-girl self something, it would be to relax! Momma Nature’s gonna do her own thing in her own time. In the meantime, enjoy not having to wear a shirt when it’s hot out. Wear white pants any day you want. Don’t worry about the little golden hairs on your legs. And eat the damn broccoli.
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