My daughter, Clementine, is now in the fourth grade. This is significant because, despite the fact that when you get to be my age everyone can’t wait to tell you that “40 is the new 30,” in the preteen world things are reversed, and “10 is the new 12.” What this means is that instead of being able to postpone all of those dreaded mother/daughter “big talks” for a few more years (by which time I was hoping they would be available as a podcast that she could download and listen to at her leisure), I now have to start thinking about delivering them immediately.
Fortunately, my plan for the big “facts of life” talk has been in place for years now: hand her a new copy of Our Bodies, Ourselves and tell her that if she has any questions she should feel free to text me. Unfortunately, beyond that I’ve got zip. For instance, for the really big talk, the one where I explain to her that–despite all of our shouts of “sisterhood” to the contrary–despite all of the marches we may march in together, all of the bras we may burn in tandem, and all of the “A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle” buttons we may exchange, sometimes a girl’s worst enemy can start out by being her best friend. Call them “queen bees” or just call them “the in crowd,” but some girls just seem born to bully.
Forget about sex–this will be the hard talk: after all, everyone eventually recovers from the embarrassment of their first sexual encounter; no one ever quite gets over the first time they were bullied by the girls who used to be their friends. The sheer weight of the emotional baggage involved makes this a hard subject to approach rationally; even thinking about it happening to your own daughter can bring out a sort of primal rage, the kind where your field of vision actually goes red around the corners and you know that if called upon you could lift up an entire car, let alone eviscerate with your bare hands the little girl who has sent your daughter home in tears.
A few years ago I read an essay in Brain, Child magazine by a woman who confessed to taking aside the girl who had been bullying her daughter about her clothes and informing her that her own shoes were “really, really ugly.” (Ah, yes: age and treachery will beat youth and innocence every time.)
Even though I thoroughly enjoyed this story for its “oh, snap” moment, I also recognized (as did the author) the potential difficulties involved in permanently functioning as a sort of verbal bodyguard. For one thing, some of those little girls are really mean–it probably wouldn’t help matters if I ended up being the one to burst into tears. For another, I’m just not that interested in going back to the 4th grade (I already know who won the Civil War). That only leaves my husband’s plan, the one where he suggested that at the first sign of bullying he would simply go find the girl’s dad and beat him up.
Of course, there’s also the possibility that, despite “10 being the new 12,” I’m still jumping the gun, and I should hang back and wait to see how Clementine handles these things on her own. After all, this is the same girl who, in kindergarten, after hearing my advice on how to deal with a boy who was teasing her about her short hair (“tease the little four-eyed brat back”) responded with, “You know Mom, I’m not like you; I like people.”
Just in case though, I think I’ll get my husband a punching bag to practice on; I can always pick it up when I’m out ordering my new copy of Our Bodies, Ourselves.