I Let My 8-Year-Old Buy a Bra

My witty, little, newly 8-year-old daughter has recently become fascinated with boobs.

I am not quite certain where this infatuation stemmed, seeing her mother is completely lacking in that department.

One of our more recent conversations (A.K.A. Questions thrown at me with bullet-like speed) was all about breastfeeding, if I have milk in my boobs, why I don’t have milk in my boobs, if people with big boobs always have milk in their boobs, when she will grow boobs, how big her boobs will be, and the most endless question of them all: “When can I get a bra like you?”

I have dodged this “I need a bra” statement more times than I can count.

I’ve told her over and over that she has no boobs, therefore, she doesn’t need a bra.

She has, in fact, confirmed that she does have boobs, they just happen to be more like “pimples” as she calls them.

After the 984th time of being asked to purchase her a bra, I caved and said: “Fine. If you want to buy a bra, you can purchase it with your own money. You have no need for a bra, and this purchase would be similar to my purchasing cat food for the cat that we don’t have, but if you see sense in that, HAVE AT IT!”

((This then stemmed to a conversation about why we don’t have a cat, and how we should probably get one.))

Last week, I told my youngin’ that she was more than welcome to tag along with me to Target as I stocked up on essentials for the house. I made it very clear that I wouldn’t be purchasing aisle 4 of the toy department. She nodded her head, grabbed a small pouch, and then hopped in the car with me.

Once inside the car, I asked what was in her pouch. Apparently, my (smarter than her mother) daughter had grabbed her birthday money to bring with her to Target.

“Oh! You are bringing your birthday money with you so you can buy something at Target?! That’s a good idea!” I said.

“YEP.” was her response.

Armed with her $64.00, we galavanted down the aisles of Target. After accidentally decapitating a dinosaur in the Christmas decoration section, we made our way to the toy aisle.

I told her that she had enough to purchase most of the items she usually asks me for (dolls, Shopkins, other stupidly small things that I inevitably step on in the middle of the night, the dogs eat, or the vacuum does), but she kept picking out items, and then asking me how much money she’d have left over after she’d potentially purchased each item.

“If I buy this doll, how much money will I have leftover afterwards?”

Each time, I’d give her the dollar amount she’d likely have left over, and after about 27 painful mathematical equations, my dumplin’ had finally decided on a Barbie.

Just as we were finishing up our Target trip, and heading to check-out, little Barb Marley started galloping towards the “Girls” section.

“What are you doing? We just picked out a new pair of pants and a shirt when we first walked in…?” I asked.

“I AM BUYING A BRA.” she explained/told me VERY directly.

And, just then, it all came together. Barb Marley was throwing difficult math equations at me to see how much money she’d have left over— because she knew she wanted this BRA SET that she’d seen when we first walked into Target and rounded the girls clothing section.

“Look Mom! These are JUST LIKE the ones that you have!” she said as she tried willfully to justify her new bra purchase.

“That’s because they ARE the same ones that I buy…” I replied.

“Wait, these are the same bras that you buy? You buy your bras in the kid section, mom?” she annoyed questioned.

“UGH. Yes. Can you just pick out a damn bra so we can get the heck out of here?” I scoffed.

“You said a bad word. What size am I?” Barb asked.

“Uh, well, I buy XL, so if I were you, I’d grab size extra small” I said as my sweaty palm grabbed the bra, the same bra that I was wearing at that exact moment, and handed it over to her.

“Okay! I think I’ve spent my money for my birthday now!” Barb said.

I led us to check-out where I decided to go first, just in case Barb decided that her and her “pimples” didn’t need a bra (and secretly praying she has a cheap tendency like her mother that would kick in at any moment..) and would put something back that her and I both know she didn’t need, but no, she clasped tightly to her Barbie and her BRA, and eagerly awaited her turn in line.

I helped her carefully count all her crunched up, rolled dollar bills and hand them over to the Target cashier to make her payment.

On our way out, she stopped and bought me a coffee. I think it was her way of buying me a shot of tequila, or a quaalude, to allow me to absorb the moment.

The following morning, I could hear my husband telling Barb that she needed to move it or she was going to be late for gymnastic camp.

“Mom! Where is my BRA???” she hollered.

I told her that people who buy bra’s probably don’t lose them, and to have a good look for it because I hadn’t quite had enough coffee to go on an 8 year old’s bra hunt.

Just then, I heard my husband hollering from the other room:

“OKAY! ‘Barb Marley the Woman’, PLEASE HURRY UP!”

“Please don’t forget to brush your teeth, too.”

((mumble of Barb’s voice))

“OKAY!! BARB MARLEY THE WOMAN, PLEASE BRUSH YOUR TEETH, TOO!!!!”

I hollered to my husband and asked him why he was calling her “Barb Marley the Woman” as I really cannot imagine adding any more components to her already confusing name.

My husband explained: “Oh, you know, her and THE NEW BRA YOU LET HER BUY are only being referred to as “BARB MARLEY THE WOMAN” this morning. WHY DID YOU LET HER BUY THAT!!?” he asked.

“Because Justin, a bra is one of the most uncomfortable things on the planet. Wait until she has to adjust her bra strap all day, or one of her “pimples” pops out. She will hate it by the end of the day— GUARANTEED.” I responded.

We are now six days in. Barb has worn that stupid bra every single day, hasn’t lost it once since, and is now onto questioning me the appropriate techniques to “properly wash her bra.”

Why did I let me 8 year old buy a bra? Because I’m an idiot, thought she’d hate it, and I was wrong. So, now I sit and eat my words—well, type them out for you to read. I think I feel better. Not really. 

Please give your friend (whose close to a coronary) a vote by clicking the brown button below. It will make her feel better.