It was bound to happen eventually. I put it off as long as possible. I tried everything - dragging my feet, dressing her up in lace and ruffles, baby-talk, Radio Disney, putting my fingers in my ears and chanting, "la, la, la, la...." Too bad for me. The Not-So-Little-One has begun puberty.
She will kill me for sharing this, but a parent's job is to embarrass their children, and I happen to be a master at embarrassment. She will kill me for telling you that she now has hair (about 2 or 3) under her arms. She will kill me for announcing that she is officially not a little girl anymore. I think I can take her, though.
When I was junior high we had to dress out for PE. It was the 70s, and we wore these awful one-piece sleeveless uniforms that looked a lot like over sized onesies. My parents were very old-fashioned and in complete denial of my maturing body. I was not allowed to shave. I made a C in volleyball that year because I was too embarrassed to raise my arms, revealing the tribbles that resided there.
I vowed that I would never be that unreasonable. So when I noticed the peach fuzz under her arms, I promptly went out and purchased the Not-So-Little-One a razor of her very own. It sat on the counter for several days. I showed her how to hold it, emphasized the importance of water and shaving cream, demonstrated the correct stroking technique. She ignored the razor.
Until this morning when she called me from home to ask if she could shave. A report should be coming any minute.