I despised puberty. It was like a cruel thief, stealing my childhood and replacing it with a horrid mess of blood, sweat and tears. It felt unfair, like I was being punished, tortured even, for being born female. Boys had it so easy.
Now, I adore being a mother of boys. They are far more complicated than I ever knew. My perception of them has transformed in many ways. Although I don’t speak for all of mankind, I still think they’ve got it easier with puberty.
Back in the day, when the lady in Grace Brothers measured me for my first bra, I almost died of embarrassment. The unwelcome arrival of menstruation had me crying for hours, bringing on grief for a childhood that I’d left behind in a blink of an eye. When pimples started rearing their ugly heads, Mum tried to comfort me with the news that they would be temporary, only until turned eighteen. More tears followed.
As a mother of boys, I am grateful that my experience of puberty will not be repeated in my children. Our boys are only twenty-one months apart, but residing on opposite sides of puberty, the great divide between boyhood and manhood.
About a year and half ago, our eldest began to grow. There were warning signs, of course. He started emptying our fridge and pantry, necessitating a bumper weekly shop, twice a week. Our washing piles grew too, with the not-so-sweet fragrance of a teenage boy. His responses were reduced to nonchalant grunts and he became more aggressive. These things bothered me more than they did him. Along with physical growth came increased performance and confidence.
Our younger son is still very much a kid. Rather than dreading puberty, he looks at the many changes in his older brother and yearns for the boost in height, strength and speed that puberty promises. He wants to grow onwards and upwards. It’s like it can’t come soon enough. As his mother, having despised facing puberty myself, I’m ready for him to greet it with open arms, excited even. Bring it on!
