Bra

We’re lucky enough to possess a carefully-maintained infrastructure of friends who pass on clothes to us when they’re done using them and to whom we can do the same. When the need arises for some certain item not included in the cache, a quick Facebook message or phone call almost invariably turns up a suitable alternative. I set out on a hunt not long ago for a winter coat, as the one my eldest was wearing developed an acute pocket-ular rip that allowed her mittens to sally forth on adventures of their own with alarming regularity. As usual, someone had one to spare.

“Child,” I announced firmly the day before I expected a new coat to show up. “We’re going to have to replace that coat.” And then I backed slowly away so as to avoid the flames from her anxiety-borne self-immolation over HAVING! TO WEAR! A NEW COAT! I held on with only imperceptibly-shaking hands to my composure while she wailed that this NEW COAT! would completely RUIN! her LIFE! She’d prefer to wear NOTHING! she said. She’d FREEZE! TO DEATH! and it would be all my fault for bringing this ruin upon her fair head. “I think it’s time for bed,” I replied, and scooted her up the stairs trailing complaints about the grievous cruelties of life.

The new garment arrived (and a few token dollars changed hands); I dumped the entire bag on out on the counter to sort through coat, matching hat, coordinating scarf and … a handful of tiny bras? A quick call to my upstream contact assured me that the bras were indeed meant for us. “She’s already out of her training bras; can you believe it?” Her daughter has sailed halfway through puberty while mine’s developmental boat languishes in dry-dock. “I know your kid isn’t ready for them yet, but I just wanted them out of the house.”

Sure, I told her. Perfectly understandable. And then I hid the bras, because if the replacement of an almost see-through winter coat caused that much angst I could only imagine the reaction bras would prompt.

But then somehow my hot-blooded child managed to wear her new coat without chunks of sky braining her. One of her friends  admired the soft fabric and fetching faux-leopard-skin design. The coat’s fate was sealed when she discovered a cunningly hidden interior pocket perfect for secreting whatever treasures her tiny heart favored on that day. I eyed the coat. With good care and an absence of excessive growth spurts we could make it last for two years — two years during which she could spend her wrath on something other than coats.

One night I caught her in a particularly good mood, humming Taylor Swift and angling for dibs on the last cupcake after her siblings went to bed. “These are for later,” I said, nodding toward the pile of white straps and fabric perched atop the rest of her clean laundry. “You won’t need them now, but when you’re ready you can try them on.”

She held one up in front of her face with as much disgust as if it were made of raw sewage stitched together with pig intestines. “I am not wearing this,” she said. “Never.”

I shrugged. “Ok. Just tuck them away in a drawer. You can give them to your sister when she’s older, then.” And miraculously, prompted by the hope for cupcakes, she did so without argument.

Weeks passed. Concern over both coat and bras grew dim. Then one day I wandered into her room as she was preparing for bed. “Look mom,” she said, and she lifted up the top of her jammies.

It was inside out and twisted but she was wearing one of the bras. It puckered sadly in the front as her chest as of yet but dreams of sprouting. “Awesome,” I told her. “What made you decide to try one on?” She had no answer; the same spirit which whispered revolt over a new coat clearly had other ideas about bras.

When a male baby unexpectedly joined my family nearly four years ago I was stunned anew when each load of freshly dried clothes tumbled out on the counter with blue items amid the omnipresent pink. It took months for the blue to lose its shock value, and I cannot imagine I’ll get used to bras in the wash any quicker.