Training Bras

There are several milestones in the life of a girl, but getting a training bra has to be one of the first.

Kathy asked me earlier this summer about getting one. She's 9 and going into fourth grade. I was trying to calculate if that was the usual time for one, and then decided to ask her why she needed one now. Unsurprisingly, the answer was because her best friend had one (the friend is 10).

Oh, the consequences of peer pressure. First, it's the training bra, next, it will be cigarettes, and after that, the first swig of beer. Kathy's whole deflowering, so to speak, flashed before my eyes.

"You don't need something just because Jenny has it," I told Kathy in my best mother-knows-best tone. She kind of shrunk in the seat and didn't say anything else about it, and I felt like I had won the round.

But once my hysteria had wound down, I thought about it more and decided that giving a girl a training bra when she wants it (as opposed to when she needs it) is probably a good idea. So, when we went back-to-school clothes shopping, we picked out a couple of training bras for her. They are actually much nicer than the ones I remembered. Hers look like sports bras and came in pretty colors.

I had flashbacks to my first training bra as we were fitting hers on in the dressing room. The look on her face as the material clamped around her previously free chest buds was quite familiar. I think every girl gets the same, "This isn't really comfortable and not what I was expecting" look on her face as she snaps on the harness.

In my case, I had bugged my mother for a training bra for a couple of months before she finally broke down and bought it. "Once I get you this, you have to wear it," she warned. I should have heeded the warning.

It was all cotton (no elastic straps for me!) with a hook in the back that dug into that place between your shoulderblades and rubbed irritatingly. After 5 minutes of it, I was ready to take it off, but my mother's dire warning was in my head, so I left it on.

We went to dinner that night at Denny's, and I ordered fish fillets. It was my 10th birthday, and Denny's was a big deal for us in 1974. Unfortunately, the waiter dropped my plate of food, and so I sat there, uncomfortable in my new training bra, starving and miserable, while the rest of my family got to eat their dinners long before I did (because, of course, nothing was pre-cooked in those days).

It's a weird memory to have of one's training bra, I'll admit, but the whole not-being-able-to-eat thing seemed to exemplify the misery I felt in the cotton harness. After we got home, I hid the training bra under my bed until I actually had something to put in it.

With Kathy, her excitement for the training bra lasted almost as long as mine had. I've found it all over the house where she's taken it off after having it on for 45 seconds. I figure it's better for her to get used to it a little at a time, as opposed to making her wear it when she doesn't want to. The time when she'll need it will come soon enough.

Divorce

Divorce is a terrible choice except when it isn't, and millions of us (myself included) have chosen it. Some of the reasons are things nearly all of us can agree on: violence, abuse, infidelity. But there are a lot of reasons that people clearly don't agree on. What if the marriage just isn't working for you? What if you feel unloved, unappreciated and unfulfilled? What if the constant cycle of argument then silence is driving you crazy? What if you just don't want to be there?

We've all known people (or are people) who got divorced for less than the Approved Reasons for divorce, and we then have to decide how big a jerk we consider the person to be, so that we can decide if we want to still associate with said person.

I'm one of those people who got divorced for less than the Approved Reasons. My ex and I married despite the numerous expressed concerns from family and friends. We knew better. We would make it work.

But the truth is, we didn't make it work. I made it work. I took care of the house, the bills and most of the major decisions. When our daughter was born, I took care of her, too. And my husband--now my ex--got the credit, because people really liked him and thought he was doing a great job. And he liked it that way.

I'll admit that motherhood took some getting used to. Angie was colicky, and, much to my mother's surprise, there was still no cure for it, even 40 years after my brother had been the Colic Wonder. I was the one who walked the floor with Angie (my ex-husband is handicapped and couldn't walk her) for hours on end, trying to quiet her crying. I read to her, sang to her, talked to her, pleaded with her and finally would put her down for 10 minutes to get a cup of coffee and regroup until she would finally give up about 2 a.m. This went on for about the first four months of her life, and then she was done with colic.

While my husband's legs didn't work right so that he couldn't walk the floor with the baby, there were other things he could have done and simply didn't. Like many mothers, I wound up in charge of everything for Angie, from diapers and formula to clothing, babysitters, education and more. And eventually, I asked myself what my husband was doing while I was doing everything else.

It was an unhappy revelation that this was the life I'd signed on for. So, I took a new job, thinking that (a) the hours would be better for caring for Angie and (b) I would be happier in a new and possibly more rewarding job.

At the new job, I met the man I eventually left Angie's dad for. And it's not like that, even though that's the story my ex would tell you. He did nothing wrong. I was a slut. The bottom line was that I was tired of having to care for everyone and everything without much of any help. And I didn't think that was a good way to raise my daughter. So, I divorced him. Angie was 2 at the time.

Most people I knew decided that, since I hadn't divorced Angie's dad for one of the Approved Reasons, they didn't want to associate with me anymore. To make matters worse, I divorced a man who was handicapped, and that made me even more than just a Selfish Bitch. It's a tag I've lived with ever since.

Now, Angie doesn't remember life when we were a "family." What she has are her fantasies about what that life was like and would have been like. Alas, the reality would have been more dismal.

But knowing that I took away her fantasy family, I tried to give her a better, shall we say New and Improved, family. I went to the Children of Divorce classes, I read the books, took the magazines and talked to every divorced person I knew about how to best raise Angie to be a happy, normal, and stable person. Idealistically, I rejected the advice from those who thought my ex would be a jerk. I knew he wanted what was best for Angie, too, and I couldn't imagine that he would put his own anger and revenge ahead of giving Angie the best life possible.

I was a fool.

Until Angie was 12, things were stable and predictable. Her father did not take all his visitation with her, but did take some of it. I did all I could to encourage her relationship with him. I didn't talk badly about him, and when she asked about the divorce, I told her we had fought a lot and I didn't want her brought up in that. It's true that I was protecting myself in telling her this, but it was also the truth. I supported Angie's relationship with her dad, and encouraged him to spend as much time as he could.



I thought I had a good relationship with my ex, which was naive, looking back. I kept him informed about all Angie's activities, sports, grades and more. I consulted him on every decision made for Angie, including doctor's visits, changes in daycare and more. In short, I embraced those articles which told me that it was more important to put the child first than to nurse one's own wounds or feelings.

This deference extended to my own decisions. My (now) husband had a job opportunity in another city, but I wouldn't move so Angie could still see her father regularly. I turned down opportunities that would have taken us other places. I even moved so that Angie would be close enough to her dad to ride her bike to his house. Looking back, I see it as a foolish choice.

The process server was standing at the door one day, and that was how I found out that Angie wanted to live with her father. There was to be no discussion, according to him. If Angie wanted it, that was that. It didn't matter that the disruption could harm her relationship with her siblings (Jimmy and Kathy), nor did it matter if the move was in her best interest.

I was stunned to discover that my love, attention and flexibility in dealing with my daughter and ex-husband were seen as none of those things. Instead, I was Evil. I had separated them. I had never approved of their relationship, and I had Tried to Keep Them Apart. None of it was true, of course, but that was the tale he told her and she believed it.

So now, here we are, 6 years after she moved into her father's house, and Angie, my smart, funny, pretty, amazing daughter, has decided we Can't Get Along. Her rejection breaks my heart. I keep hoping and praying she'll snap out of this reverie and love me for the mom I've been to her and forgive me for divorcing her dad. But at 17, those things seem more like my fantasy than our reality.

I'm Not the Perfect Mother

I'm not the perfect mother.

--I let my kids play video games too much, probably.

--I let them watch TV when they want.

--I feed them hot dogs and fish sticks for lunch. Sometimes together.

--I don't buy organic everything at the grocery store.

--I let my children drink sodas and Kool Aid.

Sometimes, I wish I were the perfect mother, and then my children would be perfect in every way.

But how much fun would that be?



Ok, that's not my child. And I don't even own a sprinkler that looks like that. But sometimes, it's fun to pretend.

I have three children, two girls with a boy wedged between 'em. Oldest daughter is from my previous marriage. She's 17 going on 30. I'll call her Angie. My son is 11 and entering middle school. I'll call him Jimmy. And youngest daughter is 9, going into the fourth grade. I'll call her Kathy. Those aren't their real names, of course, but they will do.

We used to have a sprinkler like the one pictured, back when Angie was in elementary school and Jimmy and Kathy were still in diapers. The kids loved running through the water and letting it squirt in their eyes and ears and maybe up their noses. They'd stand over the sprinkler with their mouths open, trying to get a good drink like it was a water fountain.

We had sprinklers like that when I was a child, too, back before everyone had automated sprinkler systems. We would run around in them and play, and we thought it was better than even the swimming pool. Well, ok, maybe not better than the swimming pool, but it was still fun.

Now, we have an automated sprinkler system that comes on at 4 a.m. Nobody's running through it.