Waiting For My Prince, I Mean Boobs To Come
I remember a whole table of boys smiling at me. I smiled back. They began to laugh. So I began to laugh. I looked around… what was funny? I saw some of their eyes go back and forth from my table to another’s — the special education students who were a few years older, but still getting the most out of fourth grade. I stopped laughing, and sat back down at my table.
Later, on the playground I remember being told that the boys laughed at me because I was “so flat” compared to the girl at the next table — a prematurely curvy girl who was old enough for middle school. I laughed along with my boy-table-ally, not wanting to seem like I cared, or that I would overreact any time he told me his boy-table-secrets. Small boobs, hah! So… funny…?
I guess it bothered me enough that I told my mom that day when I got home. I don’t remember making the decision to tell her, or even the story-telling part, but I do remember sitting across from her at our dining room table, the golden sun slowly setting, pleading that she NOT overreact. But she already had the phone out, and being well-connected within the district, was talking to my fourth grade teacher within minutes.
Speaking in her teacher-voice, she gave a dramatically warped version of what I had just told her, stepped carefully around “the boys’” names, seemed to say the words “her…chest…” about 300 times, and then took long pauses to listen to my teacher’s replies. I remember thinking how useless that phone call was. What was the point of informing the teacher? How would she look at me in school the next day? With pity? Did she think I was affected by bullying? I wasn’t, not really!
My mom hung up and looked deep into my eyes. She went on with something about “all girls maturing at their own pace,” and “just wait for your time to come,” and “it’s still very early for that kind of growth,” which was frustrating to me. I wasn’t the one making the big deal — the boys were! I had truly never cared about my body in that way before, never even thought twice about it. I was so offended that my mom would give me that sort of speech, after the way I coolly handled myself from the start. No more playground stories for YOU, Mom.
So you can imagine my humiliation when my teacher repeated the exact same speech the next day in class. In fact, it was the first order of business. We students “should be kinder to each other” and it was “too soon” for us to focus on each other’s bodies, and “all children grow and mature in their own time,” and “not to worry” that we would “get there soon enough.” I worked again, to make my face unreadable, hoping that only a small percentage of our class had any idea what our teacher was really talking about.
The issue faded quickly. I don’t remember any sort of teasing like that happening again for a long time. But since that day, I could never shake this uncomfortable feeling that I was waiting for something. Something that I had never considered before — my own boobs. Breasts. Milk duds. I calculated how much older that girl next to me at lunch was, and assumed I would “have boobs” by then. I didn’t. When I got to that age, I heard, “Oh, you’ll get them when you get your period.” Another two years. Nothing. They would say, “Well, maybe when you go on birth control — my boobs got huuuge when I went on birth control.” Five years later, I went on the pill — still, nothing.
I don’t particularly envy busty girls. I know more than half of you think it’s a hassle, that they sweat and might not hang “the right way” when you’re naked. I know the grass is always greener. But I can’t deny that I’ve always wondered what it was like to take ownership of those assets — to dress up some cleavage, or tuck it away. To have my necklace fall, pleasantly framed on either side, leading your eyes down my outfit (which I probably worked hard to assemble). To actually fill out a bathing suit. To balance out my hips. To wield a different sort of power. I just can’t help but wonder what it’s like, and sometimes feel that, for me, it was an unfulfilled promise.
So a large part of me wishes at that pivotal moment when I first started to ask about my body, that I hadn’t been told, “You’ll get there someday! You’ll have boobs, she’ll have boobs, we’ll all have BOOBS!” Maybe I just needed more of an emphasis on how all humans are different. How we’re all born with breasts (boys have breast development too!) and they develop throughout your entire life (you don’t GET them… you have them!) Maybe if the conversation is started young enough, you can help your child recognize these changes for themselves, as a few steps occur even before puberty, such as the nipples raising and the areolas getting bigger. It all happens in stages, and not everyone’s stages look the same.
Moms, if you’re reading this, please comment below with your thoughts! Have you had similar conversations with your daughters? Have you had to explain to your sons what’s appropriate when it comes to discussing a lady’s body? Or any readers, I’m wondering if you had a similar, or more positive, experience.
Me, I’ll just be over here, considering pregnancy as my final option to know what boob growth is like (if my breasts ever swell with milk — one of the final stages of development!) and perhaps they will finally fill the bras I’ve felt obligated to wear since fourth grade.
