Rites of passage....
Last night in the hoopla that was homework, hospitals, and headbands, a rite of passage happened at my house.
I almost missed it, but I made it back in just the *nick of time.
*it’ll make sense in a minute….
When I got home from the hospital, Tater was in the shower. THAT is a minor miracle in itself…that girl does NOT like to shower.
But being a 12 year old, hormonal pre-teen, I insist she do that every single night, as much for her classmates and anyone in her vicinity as for her. And I’m trying to instill those ohidon’tknow…good hygiene thoughts in her life.
FOR THE LOVE GIRL…take a shower.
So when I got home, she was in she shower and she called to me. She has that super spidey Sasha sense that tells her when I’m nearby. I walked in the bathroom, where the water was running, the room was steamy and the music was loud.
(The poor dog was laying on the rug, not moving, because she has trained him to stay there the entire time she’s in the shower. I’m sure if he could talk, he’d say, “LET ME OUTTA HERE!”.)
She said, “Sasha look, Sasha look, am I doing this right?”
Now, she’s been bathing herself for 7 or 8 years, so I felt pretty sure she was, in fact, ‘doing it right’ and I really didn’t, at that moment, feel the need to double check.
Hey, have you added soap and water? Washed the unmentionables, and the places that stink? What about your face? Washed that? (Preferably BEFORE the places that stink….).
That’s when the shower curtain opened just a sliver, enough for water droplets to cover the floor, and a hand snaked out holding my pink plastic Bic razor (the fancy one, not the 98¢ ones, thankyouverymuch. This one was every bit of $2…).
“What exactly are you doing?”
I may have raised my voice a little and said those words louder than I needed to, but I’m gonna say it was because the music was turned up….just go with me, k?
“I’m shaving my legs because they’re really hairy. Am I doing it right?”
I just gotta tell y’all, there aren't a whole lot of ways to do it. She was doing it right, soapy leg, razor pulled UP, not down, and slowly…..oh so S.L.O.W.L.Y. I was thinking that it would take her about an hour at the rate she was going, but I chose not to mention that.
Instead, I said “Good Job….if you cut yourself and see blood, don’t panic. Just run your leg under the water.”
And I walked out.
Mac….bless his soul…asked what was happening?
So I told him.
The shock showed on his face! “Is that what’s SUPPOSED to be happening???”
“Well, it’s time. I was probably about her age when other people started noticing my hairy legs and I secretly shaved them after talking to my friends about it. Then I skipped Sunday school and me and Lisa Taylor hid out on the back steps of church and showed each other our legs and compared how smooth they were….”
Mac….still open mouthed and shocked…was just shaking his head…. “Shouldn’t you be doing MORE to help her?”
Ideally, we would have had this bonding mother/daughter experience (and on daughter day, no less!) outside of the shower, with vanilla scented shaving lotion, a brand new pink razor all her own, (wrapped with a bow and laid gently on sparkly tissue paper in a basket) lessons on safety and how you never shave about the knee (only harlots shaved about the knee, according to MY Mama - bwahahahaha), and how now….you’ll have to shave those legs for the next 40 or so years or you’ll have prickly porcupine stubs that will irritate the skin right off you.
We would have hugged, probably read a book about puberty, had another talk about ‘the talk’, and I would have answered all her questions with tenderness and concern.
But instead she took the razor, lathered up her legs, and shaved.
And we’ll eat ice cream tomorrow to celebrate no cuts, and this rite of passage that she handled like the princess ninja warrior she is.
It’s all good.
Glitter & Grace,