and then kate

When my mom moved in with us after breaking her hip last month, I worried about how Aura would adjust. She was used to being the center of my attention most days, minus preschool hours and Daddy time. Would she resent the time I spent helping my mother? Would she start to act out? Renege on using the potty? Sneak into her father’s ludicrously well-stocked liquor cabinet? I mean, it’s not like I’d miss a stolen ounce from Bitters Bottle #22, not with the other 21 shielding it from view. (Fact! Grapefruit bitters are disgusting! Do not let Adam try to convince you otherwise!)

Turns out that those worries–like most of the million or so I toss around every day–were completely unfounded.  Always an enormous fan of her grandmother, Aura is thrilled that Grammy is living here. That Smoky Jo, Cat of Destruction, came along for the ride is like icing on the cake. Capitalizing on the fact that my mother is often confined to the couch, Aura is smothering her with granddaughterly love, requests to use her camera phone, and oft-repeated demonstrations on her newly acquired scooter and Sit N Spin.  (By the way, you guys and I really need to sit down sometime and have a nice, damning post on the Sit N Spin. How is it that a toy so wonderful, so revered in my youth is such a flaming piece of crap today? Plastic shouldn’t bend that way, people. For God’s sake, this is the AGE OF TECHNOLOGY.)

Aura has also thrown all regard for her grandmother’s privacy out the window. As I was helping my mom get dressed the other day, Aura burst in, coming to a screeching halt in front of my mother. Looking her grandmother over with her hand on her hip, Aura declared, “Grammy! You look really cute in that!”

“That” was a bra. Now, it’s not like Aura hasn’t seen me shirtless from time to time. That’s the least of my worries right now, when I can’t even use the bathroom without a 40-inch-tall companion. But there was something about my mom’s bra that really put a bee in Aura’s bonnet.  Since that morning, I often find her kneeling in front of my mother’s bureau, rifling through her underwear drawer. Yesterday, she pranced downstairs wearing one of Grammy’s bras like a backpack.  “What do you think?” she crowed, twirling so we could get a good look.

My mother and I have attempted time and time again to explain that Aura won’t need such under-the-clothes support for many, many years. And yes, when pressed, I do explain in vague, Crayola-happy terms why Big Girls need bras and what those things they support are meant to do.

But I can only handle so much. This morning, Aura pulled off her pajama top, looked down at her chest, and asked me, “See anything there yet?” And that was just about that.  While I simply answered “No!” and smiled winningly, I was actually putting my plans in place.  First, we are going to need some really heavy-duty duct tape.  I figure we can wrap her little chest kind of like some cultures used to bind feet. If it appears by age 12 that this is not working, then we’ll just lock her in her room. It really won’t be as cruel as it initially sounds.  We’ll pipe in the theme song from “Imagination Movers,” and we’ll construct a really nifty slot through which we can slide her food trays.

Because my little girl is never going to wear anything like a bra. She’s going to stay little and smell sweet and believe every word I say. She’s always going to make me pretend tea and serenade me with Mika lyrics and grin wildly when I’m the last person she sees at night and the first person she sees in the morning.

But to be on the safe side, I’m double-checking the mail from now on. God forbid a Victoria’s Secret catalog ever makes its way into her hands.