Balls

"Balls," my daughter said. My daughter said balls, and it was the testicle kind.

She was singing a silly song about narwhales and there was stuff in it about shish-kabobs and kick-butt facial horns, and then came the part about balls and we looked at each other and laughed. Just recently, she was a little girl who didn't know from reproductive organs; just put her behind a plate of noodles and in front of a "Veggie Tales" video and she was pretty much good, or give her an afternoon at the park and top it off with letting her go to bed with dirty feet. It was all she really wanted.

But now she's old enough to not only know what balls are, she's old enough to say them to her mother without batting an eyelash. I'm okay with that.

I always promised myself that in raising my daughter, I would never wish any time away. And there were plenty of reasons to do so. Like the time she went through that phase where she flatly - and with the strength of ten men - refused to get dressed for day care in the morning. Or the one where she wouldn't brush her hair, nor let anyone else - for about a year. Or the many months she got out of her bed EVERY. SINGLE. NIGHT. to climb into ours, pushing me to the middle and causing me to sleep with my arm straight up under my head, which eventually resulted in three months of physical therapy for myself (At 2:30 a.m. on a work night, it's quite easy to think that you'll just let her stay, and tomorrow will be the day that you will address that issue.) Yeah, in my own mom-way, I, if not quite enjoyed them, tried to embrace every aspect of child-rearing, pleasant or not. And that's because I knew the whole thing is fleeting.

And then, like a good pre-teen should, Madeleine began to become highly embarrassed by anything even remotely related to, you know, genitals. And boobs. Butts, too. Also, underwear. (Once, when we were in the lingerie department at Von Maur, she told me - in all seriousness - that stores should keep that stuff behind locked doors so that boys could not see it.) If we were out shopping and I said, "Oh, I need to pick up some underwear," inevitably a groan would arise from beside me..."Maaahhh-aaaaam..."

So, when did my daughter become old enough to say balls with, not only total self-assuredness, but without hesitation? I guess it was about yesterday or so. Because I don't remember it so much before then.

The other thing that happens when my daughter gets older is that I get older, too. Remarkable, but true. I wonder if it's easier to ignore your age when there is not some offspring-type hanging around, impatiently waiting for her next birthday, as though aging were actually a good thing. Though, I suppose it is; in the words of my late grandmother, Bubbie, "It sure beats the alternative." But now I don't need January 29 to come around in order to see how my daughter is getting older (read: I am getting older), because all she had to do is say balls and it was right there, staring me in the about-to-be-all-wrinkled face.

Do I begrudge my daughter this coming-of-age speak? Of course not. My more conservative counterparts may harrumph upon hearing this unexpected development; I say, get over it - balls are a fact of life, just like malls and walls. They're just a little more shocking coming from your baby's cute, little tulip mouth.