The First Day

Prelude: Lydia is now a high school student. :)

Over the years, various friends have made very kindly observations about Pete's and my parenting style, and our family unit being cohesive and happy. I'm always appreciative, but I don't always feel I merit it. So I thought I would share a moment in my mothering continuum that highlights my imperfections.

With Lydia's first day of high school looming, I began asking questions of her a couple of weeks ago...about style choices, comfort level, growing up. As I had done with Zoë before her, I bought Lydia Teen Vogue and Seventeen so that she could see some of this year's fashions. A Maine island is not exactly the locus for up-to-the-minute teen styles, and besides, when I was her age, I was obsessed with knowing what was popular. I didn't necessarily emulate those things (mostly because I couldn't afford it), but I just.needed.to.know.

Freshman year of high school was also my moment to begin using makeup. Horrific, not-right-for-my-skin-color make-up (viva los 70s). Those of you who know me well, know that the Makeup Era for me was exceptionally short-lived.

I offer these reminiscences about me because they highlight my mom choices. So, back to that: I bought the mags. Lydie read them over, or so she said. I asked if she'd seen anything she liked, or that she might want to buy in a similar style next time we shopped.

"Nooo, not really," said my 14-year-old daughter.

Urgh! I thought to myself. Usually Lyd loves spending time with me, talking about stuff we both like. She's not in any kind of rebellion stage here. She just plain was not interested.

Fascinatingly, Zoë is now living back at home and serving as a secondary mom voice. She's different from me, and has her own completely personalized sense of style. Apparently, colors-matching is a huge must-do for Z. She has critiqued Lyd quite a bit lately for not matching—and, bizarrely, for wearing basketball shorts instead of cargo or cloth shorts. (This is definitely in the WTH realm for me, but they're sisters, so I let them work it out between themselves.) But take note: neither girl will a) wear makeup or b) show skin. They're adamant. And sometimes teenage Nessa is totally baffled.

Okay, here's where I turn into a kinda villainess. One of my least-appealing maternal hallmarks is my strident voice. I get impatient and I do not typically yell or demand, but I do cut right to the chase and expect back-and-forth conversation. My children, accustomed to a pretty serene and laissez-faire home environment, sort of freak out when I go for the sharp-focus on an issue. Who blames them, I guess. But maybe it's a Queens holdover for me. And in this instance, when I've spent two weeks dropping hints about first-day-of-school attire, and I get a distinct lack of action back for my troubles, and it's the night before the first day...I'm gonna go strident.

Thus, last night when we got home, I asked Lydia if she had done her laundry and selected an outfit for school. "Yep, I did the laundry," she answered.

The outfit, I pressed. What did she choose?

"Oh, I dunno, just...jeans and a T-shirt, I guess."

I drew a resigned breath. Then I launched into a strident (told you!) explanation of.... First impressions. And big changes in one's life. And opportunities to maybe change one's image a little bit when one moves from a class of 15 kids to a class of, say, 70-ish. People judge a little more in high school, I lectured on. And you don't want to be wearing, say, a T-shirt that might look childish, or something that just doesn't look right. Because teenagers remember stuff like that.

[I am not pleased with myself for this stream-of-rapidfire-consciousness that I released last night. But look, I had one hour to take her shopping if she didn't have something that would fit her, and given her growth curve, that was a distinct possibility.]

"So please go upstairs and choose something," I ended it.

First, she came down with a long-sleeved shirt of Zoë's. An entirely inoffensive item, but a little heavier than the weather requires. I'm sure I looked crestfallen, because here I'd just blathered about style and change and reinvention, and she delivered ehh. But I didn't say ehh...I merely explained that the shirt she'd chosen was too warm and maybe too plain and--

This was where she began to weep a little. "What? What is it?" I asked.

"I-I don't want to disappoint you! You-you said not childish!" she sniffled.

[Commence my self-hatred. Sigh.]

So, I re-stated everything, softer and less accusatory. And sent her back upstairs, hoping I sounded kinder, to try again.

A few rummagy minutes later, she came down with a red Snoopy tee and a pair of Zoë-handmedown jeans. Hmmm. Zoë, I should add, was sitting across from me in the living room, making acerbic comments—which I enjoyed, truly: her participation, and her relative maturity. She added the occasional observation about the way MDI High School rolls, which greatly helps me—I don't have a clue. 

Collectively, we tried to figure out if a Snoopy tee was right for MDIHS. I asked Lydia if she liked what she had chosen, was comfortable with it. Yes, she said.

What can I say, a former New Yorker who thinks people should dress up for the first day? Nothing, clearly. In fact, acerbic Zoë mentioned something about how I'd encouraged her to dress up for the first day, only for naught, since no other Island kid had evidently gotten my urbanite memo.

I share this vignette because Lydia chose her own way despite my strident leanings. And I am so, so proud whenever that happens. Moreover, she reported after school today that two different girls had complimented her on the sweatshirt she decided to add this morning: Zoë's Totoro character. So that made me doubly proud: my girl rocks handmedowns by choice and gets props for it.

The moral: she knows what's right for her. She's smarter at that, in fact, than I am. Which is, ultimately, my best parental goal. I'm just sorry that sometimes I don't reach it with my best self forward.

God bless the child

She is slender and suddenly taller, as in: you look at her and are jolted. Whoa! when did she get that tall?! By which you are secretly saying, when did she get that grown-up. For, now, the childish rounded cheeks are attractively shaping, the nonchalant dirty blonde hair is styled and distinctive, the womanly figure is pre-ripening. And her brown-eyed gaze, always sharp and aware, is gaining an amused wiseness.

Also, I write with pride, these days her words are sorting themselves into more careful statements. Lydia has ever struggled with verbal expression. Not that she was incapable, but she just seems to shape her thoughts and ideas differently. I could write a book about how she writes and speaks in her own way. You could say she marches to her own beat. That's precisely it. And her parents are responsible for keeping her in the parade, regardless of that difference.

I have been amazed by Lydia since the moment she emerged, bellowing heartily. In my arms, protesting and red-faced, she looked offended that her term safely in utero had been brought to abrupt closure by dreadful muscular contractions not of her choosing. How do you not admire a newborn with that kind of chutzpah? We ceded our household to her at that moment. Tell us what to do, Miss Lydia. Because, really, no one else in our home has that kind of willpower and spark. She did not steer us wrong, our unfailingly polite diva. At age 1, a favorite activity was to sit in her highchair after dinner, the white tray set before her grandly, wiped of its meal leavings...and she would begin to tap on the tray, or wave her hands, or pat her head, and we would all do the same thing once she set the pace: two sibs, two parents, precisely imitating her actions. She would watch us with indulged good humor, while we all laughed--because her stamina for this activity was boundless. So was ours.

Really, it's this: I trust her. For nearly a decade, we've weathered storms of academe: extra help offered at school that we deemed useful, versus overly solicitous concerns that Peter and I were not willing to share and act upon. Never easy, those school meetings, but Pete and I are united. Throughout, I have placed my trust in that steady gaze of Lydia's, that determination. I remember a night as I was tucking her in, and we discussed some reading issue she was having. First grade. I explained to her what the teacher was concerned about, and then I explained to her that I didn't think the teacher understood that Lydia was well capable of whatever activity was being discussed. I said to Lydia, passionately, "I know you can do this, honey. Show them that you can do this." The brown eyes filled with tears, and she hugged me tightly. My trust, again, not disappointed.

Second grade is when our elementary school opens the world of music to children who wish to participate in an orchestra. I never attended a school that offered music as part of its curriculum, and as each Reifsnyder child grips a violin and starts learning, I appreciate so much what that means. Well, it turned out, Lydia did not really like the violin. Instead, she confided one night, she wanted to learn to play guitar.

Play guitar!?! You can only imagine how rock 'n roll Mumma Nessa rejoiced. And so Weslea Sidon began coming to our home every Monday night, an experienced teacher, writer, artist, and fellow NYer in exile. She "got" Lydia immediately--and while Lyd was by no means a natural at the instrument, she eagerly greeted that hour of intensive learning. Two years later, when Lydia transitioned at school from violin to (finally free!) trumpet, Weslea and we realized that Lydia's enthusiasm for the horn was outstripping her efforts on the timeworn acoustic guitar. But what a foundation had been laid, both at school and at home.

Lydia is a jazz musician now. You hear me, Mom?! She loves, craves, embraces jazz. She clutches that trumpet like a boss, and she plays it with that determined look I adore. Mount Desert Elementary School loves jazz, too, and what an opportunity our children receive in the jazz band: two phenomenal teacher/directors whose expectations are high, but gently imparted. They know these children are capable of extraordinary musicianship, and they give them the environment and the early-morning, pre-class time to master challenging arrangements. Lydia rarely oversleeps the 6:30 a.m. alarm that's required of her for jazz band practice. Dresses herself, feeds herself, gets the lunch ready, out the door.

Every spring, those early mornings bear beautiful fruit. Say what you will about Maine's bad press re: education costs and struggles; this state welcomes and nurtures music from a young age through high school. (Shout-out to the Maine Music Educators Association!) In the 1940s my mother was a direct beneficiary of that; today, my children draw strength and skill from it. On Saturday, Peter and I traced the endless gray ribbon of I-95 up to Mom's hometown for the Middle School Instrumental Jazz Finals. Last year, I was not able to attend, and Mount Desert won first place. This year, I closed my shop for the day. Lydia's personal investment in this activity has become even stronger, so we made the trek gladly. Saturday morning, I walked through the portals of a building that used to host my Brownie Girl Scout troop, the year I'd lived in Millinocket: I got my wings in that school auditorium. Even more so, my mom got her wings in that small town, becoming a musician with purpose.

If you watched the video I posted, you know the outcome. Ned Ferm and Heather Graves did it again, guiding the MDES Jazz Band to another first-place year. The band's music selections fairly pulsed with emotion and nuance. I could not believe these children were middle schoolers. And there was my girl, wielding that brass horn, perfect posture, composed, playing her heart out. My sense of family in that room was overwhelming...how I wished Mom and Nana and Grampy could have seen and heard this. Well, truly, my belief system tells me that they did, but to have had them physically present would have been even better.

After the awards were given out, Peter and I made our way through the crowd to congratulate our girl. I was still wiping away tears inspired by the performance and the circumstances. Down the bleachers she scrambled, and she pulled me into a typically fervent Lydia hug. Her hugs are different these days...our heads tuck next to each other. Equal heights. It's even more comforting. As we separated, her brown eyes were large with emotion. Crying. In her own words, she told me that she just felt so...much...and so happy.

Exactly what I was going to say. Two hugs, this time.

Ask Des and Lyd

Ask your kids. Share! Today!

Desmond, age 9, and Lydia, age 10, say...

1. What is something Mumma always says to you?
D: Ummmm....hmmmmm...I dunno. "Hi."
L: "Do your homework!"

2. What makes Mumma happy?
D: When I do my homework.
L: Listening to old records.

3. What makes Mumma sad?
D: Watching TV. [I think he means, him watching TV, not me sitting there and blubbering. But who's to say.]
L: If someone in her family dies.

4. What does your Mumma do that makes you laugh?
D: I don't think I remember anything.
L: Comment on weird things.

5. What was your Mumma like as a child?
D: I don't know.
L: No glasses, short...that's all I can think of.

6. How old is your Mumma?
D: 44...?
L: 45!

7. How tall is your Mumma?
D: 53 inches. [Yeaah.]
L: 5 foot 2? [Still, no.]

8. What is her favorite thing to do?
D: Make quilts.
L: Lie around and sleep, and watch "General Hospital."

9. What does your Mumma do when you're not around?
D: Talk to adults.
L: Sleep. And work.

10. If your Mumma becomes famous, what will it be for?
D: Making quilts.
L: For being a great genealogist, I think.

11. What is your Mumma really good at?
D: Cooking.
L: Cooking dinner.

12. What is your Mumma not very good at?
D: Chopping down trees.
L: Playing sports.

13. What does your Mumma do for a job?
D: Work at a store.
L: Work at a fabric and scrapbooking store.

14. What is your Mumma's favorite food?
D: Pizza.
L: Yodels and tea.

15.What makes you proud of your Mumma?
D: There's so many things!
L: Proud that she's my mom.

16. If your Mumma were a cartoon character, who would she be?
D: Truffles from "Chowder."
L: Truffles, because she's cranky and old--sorry to say that--and she has glasses.

17. What do you and your Mumma do together?
D: Make scrapbooks.
L: Look up the past of our ancestors.

18. How are you and your Mumma the same?
D: We both watch TV...
L: We're both girls...and I have the same eye color as her.

19. How are you and your Mumma different?
D: She makes dinner.
L: I don't wear glasses, but she does.

20. How do you know your Mumma loves you?
D: Because she hugs me.
L: Because I am her child and she loves me very much.

21. Where is your Mumma's favorite place?
D: Bowdoin.
L: New Jersey or New York because her brother lives there and she used to.

Accelerant

I have a lot of friends with kids. Sibs with kids, too. Only here's the thing: Peter and I were pretty much the first among us to have a child. So I feel compelled to share with you all that I am currently in the throes of what feels like a solar wind (you know, that phenom of waves that engulf the Earth and cause Northern lights?) Like, a momentary swirl of energy that seems to be changing everything. And in my case, accelerating it.

I have a son who is taller than me. He's grown 6 inches in 6 months, blink and you'll miss it. I just flipped through a bunch of photos I had posted on Facebook, and in none of them is he taller than me (or his older sister, for that matter). Suddenly, now: young man. Will shares a bunk bed with the thankfully-still-small Des, and when I go in to check on Des before I go to bed...there's this hulking guy whose feet don't fit in the lower bunk! Ack! Oh. Right.

Then there's this college business. I know, I wrote about this before. I've written a lot about Zoe this year. But from the slow, tortuous agony of getting applications in and visiting campuses and whatnot, I find myself the mom of a young woman ready to go to the next stage. She's not chomping at the bit, nor is she packing yet (she's my daughter, after all). But I tell you she is ready. Composed, whole, and so prepared to immerse herself in art-making and learning. This summer, she's juggling two jobs. In light of my own work-juggling life, this means we are the proverbial passing ships. I'm shaking my head because, again, it's as though a wand had been waved. Swoosh! Presto-chango.

And about those two youngers who are perpetually called youngers? Lydia is getting astonishingly tall and self-confident. She is comfortable with herself. I find myself wondering now whether that is the quality that sent all of her care providers into a she-needs-to-be-tested mode. She's just not like any of her peers. Never was, never will be. And as she ages, she inhabits that knowledge beautifully. There's awkwardness about her, don't get me wrong. But I am filled with pride at her emergence.

Desmond is still my "huggy!" guy. Unlike the others, his growth spurts have been modest (although size 6 pants are waaay in the past now). When he hugs me, he's still at my waist. His tangle of curls is right at the level of my hand to tousle it. He loves it when I do that. Still, stay tuned. The potential energy in him is vast. :)

I am changing, too. (That's the understatement of the year.) It roils me and thrills me. But as with the Northern lights, my bursts of color and creating feel as though they are out of my direct control...they're happening because they must. Also, to complete the family-unit analysis, none of my life changes can occur without the complaint-free adaptations of Peter. He is demonstrating grace and quiet support that I have seen many, many times: with my grandfather; in the labor room; during Mom's illness (and before it became obvious); pretty much every day, dealing with an absorbed, spacey, enthusiastic, broody wife. Peter = rock. I learned that in CCD, and it's still the truth.

Proud

Yesterday was one of the proudest days of my life, both maternally and personally. Let me explain....

This weekend, I am a con mom. I've traveled to Boston with Zoe as she makes her debut at the Artists Alley of Anime Boston (http://www.animeboston.com/)--a huge annual gathering of the tribes (i.e., tens of thousands of costumed, role-playing aficionados of Japanese manga and anime, 98% teenaged). Artists Alley is a selling-place for amateur artists, and Zoe has been working for months on her wares...posters, buttons, postcards, all featuring her art. Yesterday morning the piece de resistance arrived here from the printer's: Mahou Shounen, an actual 20-pp booklet (she calls it a mini-manga) with her own original story, characters, and inventive, accomplished artwork. The moment that we huddled together over the box and extracted the first book is engraved on my memory. (I meant to keep that first copy, but later on I showed it to another con mom in the hotel elevator and she bought it on the spot!) So we finally have a published person in our family. Self-published, in this case, but that doesn't detract at all from the achievement therein...and in fact, it allowed us a great deal of quality control and editorial say-so. I'm so proud of my artist-girl!

Originally, we were planning to send Zoe down here solo. This past week, though, it became abundantly clear that mountains of details and the heft of her baggage were going to defeat that idea. Hence, my (expensive but necessary) presence in Boston. While we are plunked right in the middle of the city's tastiest retail district, I really wasn't looking forward to a weekend of H&M envy (you know, that wistful cruising through stores whose merchandise is priced above my head and sewn below my size?) A little pre-trip websurfing, though, reassured me that I would have another option: the New England Historic Genealogical Society is a few blocks away from here.

So I spent yesterday afternoon in my element, idly paging through dusty books in search of nuggets. To access this library, it's most cost-effective to join the Society, so I signed up onsite for an annual membership. (Speaking of proud, this means I'm now a member of two noteworthy genea-orgs...the other being the Association of Professional Genealogists. Ooh, I quiver just writing that!)

I perused books and basked in the researchiness of it all, then came back to the hotel. After awhile, I logged onto the NEHGS' website to look over their databases, which the membership coordinator had mentioned to me earlier. Turns out that therein lurked the final pieces of my most resistant genea-puzzle: the early marriage days of my great-grandparents, Blanche Guillotte and William Paquin. Peter has brought me to so many town halls and archives trying to recapture the stories of their lives...but this was a "brick wall" with shame and discord for mortar, so breaking through it has been near-impossible. Their daughter, my Auntie Winnie, sat with me for an interview 10 years ago (which I blessedly have on tape), but she remembered little of the father who'd abandoned them, and the mother who did the same by tossing her five kids into orphanages when money got tight. Winnie gave me surreal half-tales, and I've spent the ensuing decade giving bones to that flesh, slowly but determinedly.

The NEHGS database brought me closure, as I finally, finally found Blanche and William's marriage record (under William's alias, William J. Benson), and then, amazingly, the birth record of their first child, a stillborn son, two months after the wedding day. Winnie remembered hearing about that son and even visiting his grave as a little girl, but she knew nothing about when or where he was born. Well, the "when" is actually a key part of the story, for he was obviously conceived out of wedlock, and he was born and died, tragically, on Christmas Day 1908.

What bitterness and grief did that engender? How did such a horrible loss on a usually joyous holiday mark Blanche and William for life? And did it feel, deep down, as though their union might be cursed? because from that point on, the stories I've heard suggest that it was.

In a brief blog setting, I can't begin to tell you the sadnesses I've discovered on both sides of my dad's family. Untimely deaths, poverty, alcoholism, thwarted dreams, loveless marriages. But I can tell you that I have been driven, urged, pushed to seek and find. I realized fairly early into this that no one else in my family was going to be able to find the facts and stitch the quilt. I don't mean that to be self-aggrandizing; it's just that for most of my life leading up to these discoveries, I've been unwittingly assembling a series of skill sets that I now can deploy to find the answers. Somewhere inside me, I know now that that those answers want to be found. Last night's puzzle pieces convinced me of that. The ancestors speak, many genealogists say. They guide us. What I would add is: They want us to know them and understand them. To tell their stories. Their sadnesses and life lessons must never be for naught.

I am proud to know them.

One year ago

Exactly one year ago right this minute, I was in the Boston Greyhound station, impatiently waiting for my connecting bus to New York City. Frantically rushing to my mom's side, because after a few uncertain weeks of tests and questions, the doctors had finally honed in on ovarian cancer as the cause of Mom's illness. The oncologist was due to visit Mom the next morning at 6:30, and I had to be there. Science writer, daughter, friend, I had responsibilities. 

My bus deposited me at Port Authority at 4:30 a.m., and I snagged a taxi uptown, dragging a suitcase that was weighted with the uncertain length of my stay. Mom had already apprised the Lenox Hill security staff of my unusual arrival time, so in I went at 5:15, when the hospital was still and gray with dawn.

Thank God I got there when I did. Other than some annoying symptoms, Mom was fully herself. She'd been crossword-puzzling, watching the city from her windowside chair, chattering with her roommate about the other people on the floor, red hair as resplendent as it could be under the hospital circumstances.

She waited for me expectantly in her chair. I'll never forget the sight of her leaning towards the door, her face yearning. I was yearning too. As we hugged, her mother-scent enveloped me and I felt young in a heady moment. That was all too fleeting, because with the arrival of the oncologist, I became mastermind interpreter and keeper of the medical details...roles I held firmly, with fire in my eyes, until the day she died.
 

That day came too damned soon. The woman I first saw at Lenox Hill, while slightly impaired physically, was cognitively and emotionally my mother. However, once chemo treatments began, everything about Mom faded and paled...except for one thing: the keen, unbearable pain. Soon she would never sit in that windowside chair again. Soon she would require a walker to get from her bed to a commode. Soon she would not be able to get to the commode in time at all.
 

I did not intend for this entry to become a catalog of Mom's illness, because having lived it, I would just as soon erase it. An impossibility: I will bear the images, the memories, and the extreme emotions of those three months forever. But what I was trying to convey was the rapidity of my mother's decline. Bizarrely, in the midst of it, each day crawled, twisted, and distorted. However, with that year thankfully in the rearview, I now find myself stunned at how quickly Mom's sickness became a life-threatening wrestling match. And how stacked against us it all was--when I was in New York, that thought truly didn't sink in. I pushed every resource at the fight because I believed.

 

I am a fan of believing. In fact, despite the overarching, soul-threatening suckiness that was 2/05-2/06, I remain an optimist. Kind of my trademark, I guess. And it's exactly what Mom wanted from me: not only in the hospital, but throughout our entwined lives. Hard to convey what a profound realization that is for me. Makes me cry, surfacing it.

 

When this blog began to take shape, iTunes tossed this song at me. It says absolutely everything that I'm feeling on this unwanted anniversary (not to mention the wrenching minor-key accompaniment). 

 

Hello, how are you.
Have you been alright,
through all those lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely nights?
That's what I'd say, I'd tell you everything,
if you'd pick up that telephone.

 

Hey, how you feelin'?
Are you still the same?
Don't you realize the things we did, we did
were all for real--not a dream,
I just can't believe
they've all faded out of view.

 

Doo wah, doobie doobie wah, doo wah doo lang
Blue days, black nights, doo wah doo lang
I look into the sky
(the love you need ain't gonna see you through)
And I wonder why
(the little things are finally coming true)

 

Oh, oh, telephone line, give me some time, I'm living in twilight
Oh, oh, telephone line, give me some time, I'm living in twilight

 

Okay, so no one's answering,
Well, can't you just let it ring a little longer, longer, longer....
I'll just sit tight, through shadows of the night,
Let it ring for evermore....

 

Oh, oh, telephone line, give me some time, I'm living in twilight
Oh, oh, telephone line, give me some time, I'm living in twilight

 

From 1982 on, my relationship with Mom was primarily conducted by phone, pretty much daily. We were each other's checkpoints. 

First Mom blog. My friends, this is a huge milestone for me. I miss her to the point of tears every day and had begun to fear I'd never get anything said. Muse, inspiration, whatever it is...now I know the words will come. The other thing that Mom always expected of me.

Hooked

Last night, I bought you your first bra. Correction: I bought you three of them, all different styles and fabrics—because my first bra was just that, one bra, and I always wished I could have had more of a choice.

In my day, Queens girls went to an old-fashioned lingerie store to get the momentous first bra. In the window of the store would be translucent plastic legs modeling pantyhose, headless shoulders with bustlines in nighties (both daring and demure), quilty bathrobes and stretchy girdles. The door would be heavy, all glass, like you were pushing to get into some brightly-lit tomb. The store was invariably staffed by older ladies who wore bifocals on a chain around their necks, called you "dawling" and asked "Isn't this one beauty-ful?" in a raspy smoker's voice.

Before you actually tried a bra on, you had to submit to a mortifying tape-measure around the chest—two times, once right across, and the second underneath your swelling shape. Then the saleslady would retreat behind the glass counter, pulling a big box down from a shelf that was labeled "32AA" in BIG black letters (this felt really embarrassing, as though everyone now knew you'd be wearing the smallest possible size). She'd then fish around inside the box and bring out a bra. The box was too high to see into, so you had no idea if there was some other style in there you might have liked...no, there it was: your assigned bra.

The white trifle felt lightweight and silly in your hands as you headed for the dressing room. Like this is gonna make a difference, you'd think, recalling the ouchy feeling you were now getting whenever you ran down the sidewalk playing tag, or when you took the stairs at a gallop. Regardless, you pulled a little curtain across the dressing room doorway and struggled out of your T-shirt. The bra was alien to the touch, and the straps dug right into your shoulder as you reached behind you--how the hell do they do this?!—trying to hook the closure. It felt like minutes were ticking away as your mom stood patiently at the glass counter, waiting.

Finally...hooked. In the mirror, you turned and contemplated this new shape on your body. The cups of this bra were thickly lined with synthetic batting; alas, the stuffing was too dented-looking to actually improve on your slender shape. In between your breasts (breasts! still an absurd new word), there was a tiny white satin bow with a tinier white fake flower in its center. You'd shrug around then, trying to stop that digging sensation on your shoulders. And then you'd jump in place (just a teeny bit, so that the ladies in the store wouldn't think you'd lost your mind)..and whaddya know? they didn't bounce and ouch! Whew, you'd think,that decides it.

You'd poke your head into the corner of the curtain then, and multiple women (including Mom) would turn to look at you. "This one's good," you'd say. "Can I, um, wear it home?"

"Sure," said the saleslady. Mom nodded. Back in the dressing room, you reached for your T-shirt and tugged it back over your head. And then, the first womanly thing you'd really ever done in your life: you tucked your shirt into your jeans, pulled taut; stood up straight with shoulders back, and checked out your bustline side-to.

Still you.