This parenting gig is sucking the youth right out of my body like a ten year old slurping a thick chocolate milkshake through a straw. I’m starting to feel more withered and used up each time my darling preteens come up to me and share their thoughts on growing up with me.

“Mom, what does it mean when a boy pops a woody?” Fric asks.

It means your mother just sprouted another facking wrinkle, honey. Thanks for asking.

“Some kids were talking about wet dreams on the bus, mom. What are those?” Frac asks.

Um, the opposite of dry dreams?

“Why do boys masturbate? And do girls do it?” Fric asks.

Wait…I think you missed a spot when you were smacking me over the head with that wooden bat. Go on, try it again.

I’m happy my kids think I’m cool are comfortable talking about such interesting subjects with me. Back when I was their age, I either dug through my brother’s collection of playboys in search of an answer or asked my best friend at recess about such sensitive matters, instead of braving my parent’s disapproval with such questions.

I only wish my kids would ply me with liquor before they brought out the big guns.

I was really late to the puberty game and I guess I was hoping Fric and Frac would take the same slow path as me. Because I am not ready to be the parents to children in puberty.

My children, however, have other ideas. It doesn’t help matters much that they are surrounded by older children every day, on the bus and at school. Or that some of their cousins have hit puberty.

Better my in-laws than me, I say.

I kid.

No I don’t.

But recently, my darling daughter decided to take it to a whole new level. She has decided she is ready for a training bra. In grade six. Granted, she is the only girl in class who isn’t already sporting a nice B-cup, but still. Unless those boobs of hers are invisible, I’m thinking she’s jumping the training bra gun a little bit.

Thank heavens. I’m not ready for boobs yet. I’m still fascinated with my own. I don’t want to have to deal with hers.

But Fric is a much like her mother. Persistent and annoying. So in a moment of lapsed judgment I told her I would consider buying her a training bra. The time had come for me to find a few new sacks to stuff my McGuffies into, so I could kill two birds with one stone.

Remember the training bras of our past? Ugly, itchy and only good for the boys reefing on the back strap and snapping them while we howled with indignation?

Ya, they don’t make them like they used to. No. Nowadays, training bras have foam inserts and padded cups and underwire.

I thought I was in the wrong department, as I stared at rows of brightly coloured padded bras. But no, they all had tags certifying them as jail bait lures training bras.

Suffice it to say, I bought a few. For me. Some of those bras were damn sexy. Boo’s gonna be mighty pleased when he gets home. (Or with the pics I sent him. Wink, wink.)

But I did not buy any for my precious, innocent, beautiful eleven year old daughter who is as flat as a damn board. And will hopefully remain that way forever because I’m delusional and crazy.

Upon seeing the lingerie bag, Fric excitedly starting rifling through it, looking for her loot.

“These are all for you, Mom. Where’s mine?”

“I’m sorry honey. But your dad and I decided that you were still a tad young to be leaping into a training bra. Don’t be in such a hurry to grow up. Before you know it you will be old, wrinkled and withered up. Just like your dad,” I consoled her.

“But MOM! All the other kids are wearing bras!”

“Yes, and I raised you to be a lemming, just like them.”

“MOOOOOM!”

“Look, kid. I’m not saying I’m condemning you to a life of braless freedom. I promise you when you grow some funbags we can all see, I’ll be the first in line to march you off to get fitted for a big girl bra. Until then, just use your imagination.”

I could feel the grey hair start to sprout right around my temples. I swear.

“But I’ve got boobs!” she argued as she whipped up her shirt to show me her invisible chest.

“Well, you’ve got nipples honey, but so does your brother, and you don’t see me trying to wrestle him into training bra do you?”

“Very funny, Mom.” Man, if her bottom lip stuck out any more as she pouted, she was gonna trip over it.

“Listen honey, I’ll tell you what a wise woman once told me when I was impatient and desperate for boobs at your age: You don’t have boobs until they bounce up and down as you jump around,” I called after her as she stomped off to lock herself into her bedroom and wish she had a cooler mother.

I could have really scarred her and told her she could be like me and have to roll them titties up to stuff them into the cups. Boobs or beaver tails, it’s hard to tell the difference these days.