A real woman

Daughter 2 has decided that she needs a bra.  Since school let out and one of her little friends actually wore a bra to school on the last day, Daughter 2 has been scheming and plotting and prodding her way around actually getting her non-existant chest into a padded, pink bra.  She has been one determined albeit flat-chested child.


I tried the direct method, "You don't need a bra yet."

I tried the indirect method, "Bras are hot and uncomfortable."

I tried the diversion method, "A bra, huh?  Wanna karaoke?"

I tried the ignoring method, "Wha-? Do you hear that?  I don't hear anyone talking about a bra."

Over the course of the past four weeks, Daughter 2 has worn my bras, she has worn her sister's bras, and she has worn bikini tops moonlighting as bras.  This simple fact remains:  She doesn't need a bra.  Today, however, it came to a head.

"Momma," she said, standing in front of me with absolutely no clothes on except her purple striped panties, "Look."  Then she took her little hands and squeezed as much extra body as she could spare into a gigantic pinch centering her breasts in between her hand-made vice.  "See? I am really, really, REALLY needing a bra."

"Fine," I sighed, "We'll measure you, and if your breasts measure 32 inches or more, we'll go get you a bra.  But, if they aren't 32 inches, you'll have to wait and I don't want to hear anymore about it."

She squealed and ran off to get a measuring device.  She returned with a yard stick.  I told her I admired her self-esteem, but a yard stick wouldn't work.

She made me promise not to tell her size.
I'm keeping that promise.

She scurried off and returned with a flexible ruler.  I demonstrated to her how that simply wouldn't work either.  As she darted from me, I hollered out where she could find the tape measure.  In just moments she ran back and excitedly raised her arms as she stood right in front of me.

I measured and with a great mix of emotion, announced that she was not quite at 32 inches yet.  She was defeated, but not completely crushed.

"But, I'm getting there, right, Momma?" she asked.  I nodded my head at her sweet ability to be optimistic at the pronouncement of her inability to join bra-wearers of the world.

"In no time at all, I'll need a bra, right, Momma?" she continued to gush looking for encouragement in the face of flat-chestedness.  I nodded.

"Pretty soon, I'll be a woman," she announced with an overabundance of maturity and seriousness.  "And when I become a woman, I'll have to be more responsible," I liked the way this was going.  She continued, "I'll have to be more mature and not argue with my sister.  AND,"  she said with added emphasis, "I'll need more privacy.  A woman needs her privacy, right, Momma?"

I sighed.  I put my hands on her bare little shoulders and looked her square in the eye.  "Honey," I started, "I am a woman, and yet, here you stand in front of me, half naked, while I'm sitting on the toilet.  How much privacy are you expecting?"

She's still thinking on that one.