My children, as children often do, are growing up. Fast and (if you listen to all the arguing as they do the dishes) furiously.

More specifically, my daughter is hurling herself into adulthood as fast as her little pubescent body will allow her. She tugs on the ropes of independence far too frequently for my comfort and takes great pride in telling everyone that in a matter of months she will be an official teenager.

This may be why I’m sprouting more fine lines on my face every time I look in the damn mirror.

The other day I decided to have a mother-daughter day with just the two of us, so we abandoned the boys and headed off into the big city to spend Boo’s money as we made our way from one end of an obscenely oversized capitalist’s playground mall to the other.

As we were walking through the mall, my daughter noticed a pair of thirty year old men who were ogling my boobs as they sipped their over-priced lattes.

“Mom, do men hit on you?” She asked curiously.

My mouth went dry and I started cursing in my head as I calmly replied, “It’s been known to happen a time or two, Fric.”

“Why?” She asked, in a rather incredulous voice which shattered any remaining shred of womanly pride I was trying to hold on to.

“Because I have boobs. Men like boobs. They’ll hit on any one with boobs.”

She walked beside me silently, digesting this tidbit as I tried to distract her by pointing out all the shiny neon signs surrounding us.

“How old were you when boys started hitting on you?”

I could see this wasn’t a topic I could easily avoid, so I looked at her, thought for a bit and answered honestly.

“I don’t really remember. I wasn’t all that popular in high school so it must have started once I graduated. Coincidentally, it was right about then I grew boobs. Boobs are the key.”

“I’m growing boobs.” She stated matter of factly. Like her father and I hadn’t noticed or something.

“I can see that.”

“So boys will start to hit on me soon.”

“I hope not. I haven’t sighted in my gun in a while,” I winked at her.

“Moooom! That’s not funny.” Oh honey. I wasn’t joking, I thought to myself.

She refrained from asking any more questions on this topic and I thought we were done. But as we were sitting in a crowded restaurant, she sighed, “I just don’t get it.”

“Get what?” I asked as I sipped on my water and scanned the menu, not really paying attention.

“This whole hitting on thing. Do men only hit on women if they have big boobs?” She pondered as she looked at all the breasts around us.

“Well no, not all men. Most hit on a woman they find attractive or interesting.” This conversation was rapidly beginning to feel similar to digging a hole and burying oneself in it. “Maybe you should ask your father,” I tried to deflect.

Cuz I’m all about passing over the hard jobs to the other parent in this horse race of child rearing.

“Nah. He’d just tell me to ask you anyways.” Ya, cuz he’s smart like that. Dammit.

Just then our lunches arrived and I happily dug into my food, thrilled for this particular conversation to come to an end. Next she’d be asking me if I ever let a boy cop a feel in the back seat of a car and what kind of birth control I’d recommend for teenaged lust.

Luckily for me, Fric didn’t seem to keen on picking up the conversation and I did a happy jig in my head as we paid the bill and left the restaurant.

“Just one more question Mom and then I’ll drop it,” she ventured.

Sighing loudly as though this was the biggest imposition of my life, I looked at her and said, “Fine, what now.”

“Well, if men don’t just hit on women because of their boobs, but because they find a woman attractive or interesting…”

“Yes?”

“Why do men bother hitting on YOU?”

Oof.

There’s laws about beating your children, right? Dammit.