Initially when this internal dialogue and the accompanying visions began to crystalize in her head, she thought she was going to talk to her daughter about how to select and handle her sanitary products, how to care for her hygiene, (yes including those underarms,) and what types of things to expect from herself physically and emotionally. She imagined the facial expressions that would come across their identical except for stage-of-life faces when she got to the intimate details, not sure if they would come from embarrassment or amusement on the part of them

both together or individually at different times. She could almost hear her daughter calling or rather texting her to let her know she needed more pads or tampons, and wipes because grown as she was ready to be, she wasn’t prepared to stand in the line at the store while everybody including some boy (fine or not so attractive) could see her holding them. And heaven forbid, she knew with a perfect knowing that she and her daughter were going to clash over the choices of clothing that were now up for selection – what was age appropriate yet chic enough, what was stylish, what was too grown, too tight, too short, too revealing, too, too, too much.

There were going to be some knock-down drag-out sessions that would inevitably end with an attitude, poked out mouth, slammed doors, tears, and under-the-breath-because-you-dare-not-say-that-shit-out-loud-through-them-lips-I-birthed-you-with sassiness and rolling eyes, on the way.

Yup, it was going to happen, no if, ands, or buts about it. Oh, and lest we forget DATING. Way too much to even think about right now because her mothers’ mind and heart just can't take it all in in one sitting - the excitement, heartbreak/ache, insecurity, crushes, and the unveiling of new feelings and firsts that now pretty much have begun to dominate all of her conversations with her friends and have left you as a curious unwelcome listener. And to add fuel to this already simmering fire, that slippery little demon that speaks the fears of all mothers everywhere, plastered itself smack dab in the middle of her brain “SEX”. And from the depths of her being all she can silently scream is “No! No! and HELL NO! Not my baby”….. "AAAAAHHH".

But after a period of regaining her composure and taming her fears, (because she knows she has got to handle the business of the business of womenfolk), and with an air of resignation, she moves away from this line of thinking. And as she re-visualizes her daughter, this mom became tickled at the idea of her girl-child’s awkwardness as she tries to strike a pose and convey an air of confidence that comes with a maturing body while not being quite sure how to actually position herself to get to that pose and not knowing if it’s saying what she wants it to say. Hell, she’s just learning that it can even speak and she clearly does not have the skill of a literate or body-lingual just yet.

So as is the custom of the learned, the mother laughed because she remembered when this was her time-of-life challenge. Yet within her mother/woman-self role, she is also dealing with conflicted delight because she knows what this means as she watches her daughter’s monthly trips past her into the bathroom to handle her business. With a giggle, a groan and a bit of visceral trepidation, she rehearses in her head, “My child is growing up”, “I know I didn’t look like that when I was her age” and “Where did the time go?”.

Nevertheless she is absolutely convinced that she will be open, knowledgeable, unflappable and sensitive in the midst of this delicate process. That these will be special moments each of them will remember for all eternity and ones that her daughter will pass along to her own daughter when the time comes. She felt fortunate and steadied herself for this long-awaited yet sometimes dreaded undertaking. She sighed, smiled, closed her eyes and laid her head back to relax with her gentle and settled thoughts.

But fresh on the heels of those sweetly and not so sweet imagined mother-daughter interactions and in the midst of surrendering to her quietness, just as it had crept up on her previously, this yet to be identified “it” was attempting to claim her as its’ audience. And though she tried to shake it off, “it” refused to be ignored. She didn’t know if "it" was an actual thing, something imagined or merely a feeling. And as she searched for the origin “it” became more incessant and demanding with its’ audible rhythm prancing in her direction. Tick. Tick. Click. Tick. Tick. Click. Because although on the surface, nothing about where she was and what she was doing had changed this urgent energy was being stirred and arising from within.