“Does my chest look bigger, Mama?”
It took me a moment to hear this properly. We were walking home from school, passing a teen on the street who was holding his shirt and trousers suspiciously, and who began walking away from us briskly as we approached, looking over his shoulders at us, still clutching at himself as though he was packing or something. (I am ever-aware of guns, drugs and violence in my ‘hood.)
I automatically asked my daughter what she said, in that distracted way children are so familiar with.
“Does my chest look bigger.”
I looked at her. A million thoughts raced through my head like tiny bubbles escaping upon the sudden submersion of a large heavy object in water. Then the inevitable huge bubble surfaced: a memory of myself, a nine-year-old tomboy in ’70s-style baseball jersey shirts, resisting wearing a bra. On the heels of that, a memory of my mother, insisting I really needed one.
A feeling of dread began to seep up my legs, like what it must be like to have your feet planted in cement before you get whacked off the pier.
We passed the suspicious teen, and his two suspicious friends, who eyed us suspiciously as well.
My daughter’s chest looked no different than the last time I’d seen her. “Bigger since when, sweetie?” I inquired, my voice perky as ever.
“Since this morning.”
“Hm,” I said, buying myself some time. Why would her chest look any bigger? What was she after? Had she been going through some wacky second-grade peer pressure already about bigger chests? Good Lord, I thought. This stuff sets in earlier and earlier. I didn’t think I was ready for this quite yet. The tween attitude I can sort of handle but she’s not even eight yet. I need time to adjust to parenting an adolescent. I feel like I finally hurdled the toddler years. Silently, I cursed the lot of my daughter’s classmates for taunting and teasing or whatever they may have been doing.
“Why would your chest look any bigger?”
“Because I’ve been practicing holding my breath,” she responded. “And I’m trying to get my chest to be able to hold more air.”
“Oh,” I said. “So it would look bigger because your lungs are growing?”
“Yeah. If my chest is bigger then it means my lungs can hold more air, and I can swim under water for longer.” She inhaled sharply and held her breath to demonstrate, as her chest stuck out under her chin.
“Right. Well, yeah, you definitely look as though your lungs are growing.” I finally exhaled.