Why I Still Need to Lose 15 Pounds

I have two adolescent girls. One who has begun her cycle, and one who is just learning about it. Both are decidedly repulsed by these changes in their bodies. When the first one started having to wear a training bra, she couldn’t bring herself to say the word. So when she finally needed more, she came to me and said, “Mom, I need more of those….” and she looked pained as she surveyed the room to be sure no one else could possibly know what she was talking about, “Things!”

Her sister just finished the school orientation on the issues that surround becoming a teenage girl, but I’d already given her a primer. So she was especially irritated to be subjected to information she already knew, and then to be given a bag of samples, well that was almost too much. She got into the car first to be able to hand me the plastic sack that said “Just For Girls” and then scurried to the rear row in the van to essentially hide from it. Her sister grabbed the front seat, saw the bag and said, “I’m Still having it!” with a moan. It had only been two days. She took the bag, looked at it in annoyance and frisbeed it to the far back.

Then the third daughter who is only in first grade and a newly fluent reader got into the car. She’s also very compassionate and empathetic so she immediately registered her sister’s unhappiness but not the source. “Why is she upset?”

This produced a clam like response from both older girls. She spied the bag. “What’s in the bag?” Now the middle girl could only snatch it and say, “That’s mine.” With a sulk. Of course, this made the third child cry. “Why can’t I have it? It says just for girls and I’m a girl. You never share anything. You’re just mean.” The oldest girl tried to explain without explaining. “It’s something for Older girls.” She gave me a look of satisfied “I took care of it.” But then the boys got in the car. The oldest son was annoyed that he couldn’t have the front seat so he sat in the middle but turned towards the angry sulking ones in the back and asked, “what’s wrong?” They both pointed to the bag and he turned very red and became a silent stone, giving me pleading “ Please rescue me” looks in the rear view mirror.

The other son who was being picked up, is my instigator. He got in, sensed the tension and asked the youngest and most apt to tell everything, “What’s wrong?” She started her crying rant anew. “That bag says Just for Girls and I’m a girl and I’m older, I’m not a baby and she should share and they never let me have anything.”

So he said, “You’re not older. You’re not older. I’m older. You’re not.”

It was at this point that I had to decide. How to address this problem. I got out of the car. I got THE bag. I took it to THE trash. I then got back in the car. The faces were swollen, puffy, sulky, scared and embarrassed. It was the b-list of Snow White’s dwarves. The toddlers, baby and my one five year old mercifully had fallen asleep in the car ride to the school for pick up. There was only one thing to do.

“Who wants ice cream?”