My Baby's Got Holes in Her!

My baby girl will soon be leaving me! I can see it now: Flying free, she’ll be out of the house, off to college, as far away as the moon.

She’s growing up and in a blink of an eye, it’ll be see ya, hasta luego, ta ta, don’t call me – I’ll call you…I will cry as if my heart is breaking and she will be laughing and perhaps, having a beer.

So why do I suddenly feel as if my little, pre-teen pixie will suddenly age seven to 10 years and commence her earth-shattering, heartbreaking prison bust?

Two things: 1. she’ll be starting middle school in the fall and time is going to F. L. Y. – I just know it. And, 2. she just got her ears pierced.

Oh, the agony. My baby now has two holes in her ears and so, she’s almost a woman.

Simmer down, you say, it’s just earrings, for cryin’ out loud, not her high school graduation. But for some reason, I am feeling like this is a turning point.

And I wasn’t even the one who took the child for the piercing.

It was darling daddy, the Prince Charming of our kingdom, who took her. Twice.

The first time they went to Claire’s, in the mall, she picked out some earrings and the friendly ear piercing expert assembled all of the necessary tools for the stabbing. She marked the child’s ears and was about to gun the first when the child screamed, “No, don’t do it.”

So the two came home, the child sobbing loudly and Prince Charming defeated by the disappointment.

The next night, the two mysteriously left the house. When they returned, the girl was standing tall, hair pulled behind her ears, with a tiny, gleaming green crystal in each.

Daddy explained, proudly: “She said, ‘this time I’m going to do it,’ marched straight into the chair, and barely flinched.”

I gawked over her ears and praised her bravery.

The newly-pierced child then skipped into the bathroom to display all of her pierced ear accoutrements: cotton balls, antiseptic liquid, an information pamphlet about how to prevent infection.

I asked her if she needed help cleaning and turning her earrings, which she would need to do three times a day for the next 12 weeks. She said, ‘no thanks,’ and, quite adeptly, did it herself.

Unneeded, I locked myself in my own bathroom, to cry. I came out to write this blog, but I’m not sure yet that I’m fully recovered.

For me, getting earrings are right up there with wanting a bra. My girl’s got a one-way ticket to womanhood and for me, it’s moving way too fast.

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