A Bra Story

I'm a tough woman who has lived a tough life and survived much. Rape, an ex-husband, adolescents even. But nothing I have ever experienced could have prepared me for what would be the biggest trial of my life.

Today, I bought my daughter her first bra.

It's a pretty basic little thing; white cotton, all one piece, one of those sports bra kind of things. They had the other kind....the silky ones, pastel ones, ones with little flowers in the center, even the ones with little fruit or the days of the week on them. But I didn't trust those bras. I caught them whispering to the men's briefs across the aisle.

I chose the one nuns wear. That one said to me that my daughter was always going to be safe, no one would ever hurt her and no strange underwear would ever try to talk to her. I liked that one a lot.

Still not convinced however, since if it were one of the 'bad' bras, it certainly wouldn't tell the truth about it, I wandered around the bra isle, trying to be nonchalant. I looked at some socks, I picked through some nightgowns, but all this time, see, I am watching it out of the corner of my eye. Not once in the four hours I was doing this did it turn from white cotton to red lace or wink at the briefs across the aisle "hey tailored, looking for a date?", nor did it grow fangs and smile at me, and it was never mean to any of the other bras, so I felt fairly secure in buying it.

I picked it up and put it in the cart. It sat there quietly, so I am thinking ok so far. No claxons went off, no one's head turned to look at me. Ok. I have other things I need to buy while I am here, but it strikes me that it might not be ok to buy other stuff when you are buying your daughter's first bra. Maybe that should be a sacred, solitary purchase. On the other hand, if I leave it in there all by itself, everyone will see it and know my daughter is growing breasts and what kind of underwear she wears. Still, I need other stuff and once I buy the bra I don't want to come back for a while, so I take my chances and get my other things. I am still ok at this point.

I wander around the store a little more, trying to put off actually buying The Bra. Having it in the cart isn't the same thing as being committed to it or anything. After another four hours or so of this though, I have fourteen employees in every aisle with me, watching my every move (or is it the bra?? Do they know something I don't???), so I figure it is time. I move towards the registers.

I can't think of anything I can go back for, so I begin to put things on the counter. I try not to think about it when I put the bra up there. Maybe if I do it quickly enough, it won't be so bad. This does not prevent me from informing the (male) cashier that this is my daughter's first bra. As the words leave my lips, I start to cry. At first I am unsure if this is because of the way the cashier is looking at me, or the bra thing, but as I pay for it, it is suddenly very real to me. I curled my hair this morning and put on makeup and wore great clothes and it didn't change anything. No one is going to bend the rules for us. My baby is growing up. She isn't going to be my baby forever. One day she is going to be living on her own and I won't know where she is or if she is safe all the time. I won't be able to protect her the same way and I won't be needed the same way. One day, not all that far from now, I will have to figure out who I am going to be when the kids are gone. What I will be good for besides being Mommy.

I exit this reverie when the store begins to shut off its lights. I pay for my daughter's bra and ask the cashier if I could take his picture to put it in her milestones album (the man who sold me her first bra). He won't give me his last name. I realize I have committed to this future, my daughter's adulthood and eventually my own. I agree to get my change tomorrow (they locked up the last of the money a half hour ago), and as I leave I get the feeling the store will be very glad when I am outside again.

Now it's time to go home and give it to my daughter. The weight of that thing in my trunk is oppressive.

I take her into her bedroom, just the two of us, and I show it to her. She screams and feigns disgust, but I know my baby. She's delighted. She asks if she can put it on now. She is very eager, my daughter, and even as I want to beg her not to want to grow up so fast, I remember my own mother saying the same thing to me, and that it didn't stop me or slow me down at all.

She's so happy. She puts it on without any instruction from me, making me further obsolete, and preens before the mirror, pooching her tiny breasts out. The look of pride on her small face is such that I can't help but be happy with her. Her happiness over this event is such that I cannot bear to damp it with my own suddenly petty qualms. It is a little too small for her (!!!), so I will have to go back and get another. She wants to come pick it out, as I knew she would, asking specifically for the silky ones. I look at her face, so shining and beautiful, and tell her about the ones I turned my nose up at. What the heck....at least she will always know what day it is.