Little Girl Time

    The Buffington household was not always filled with smiles and hugs, especially when hormonal teenagers were involved, namely me. Daddy worked hard to provide for the family and trusted Mama with most of the child-rearing. The system worked well because Mama knows things—like what I’ve done, what I might do, and what I’m going to do. She can read my mind, even as an adult. Overall, it was a division of labor that worked well. Mama did her best to prepare us for puberty and adulthood, in her own special way.

    Of course, no one in our family said the word S—E—X. It was always spelled out like some secret code. Mama didn’t realize I learned about S—E—X in the sixth grade from the new set of World Book Encyclopedias while doing a report on Spain. It was my most interesting report and I worked on it diligently. Soon, other sixth graders were fascinated with Spain.

    As I grew to be a young lady, my mother was especially careful in what she told us and how she told us. For example, I found out about female monthly cycles at an afternoon Girl Scout meeting when a nurse came to talk with us. Mama had to sign a permission slip and it was all very hush, hush. I was totally disgusted at a wasted meeting and never wanted to talk about it again—ever! My friend’s mothers would refer to “that time of the month” as “Aunt Flo’s visit,” or the “Red-haired Aunt’s visit.” But not my mother. She sweetly called it, “Our Little Girl Time.” It was a phrase that, in my teenage mind, evoked a deep sense of anger and hostility, like some ancient beast rising from a pit.    

    One afternoon, I came home from school and like most epic battles, no one can remember the spark that ignited the blaze. I can only remember that I thought I was going to die and couldn’t stop talking. Mama had obviously made a comment, asked me a question, or reminded me of a forgotten task, when I turned into a raving maniac. In less than two minutes I had brought forth the attitude, the smart mouth, and the disdainful roll of the eyes—the trifecta of teenage rebellion. In the back of my mind, a small voice was pleading, “You’re gonna die! You’re gonna die!” I knew, I was gonna die, and it didn’t matter. I could not quit running my mouth.

    It was at that moment that mama looked me straight in the eyes and asked, “Is it your little girl time?” That phrase was like invoking the name of a monster, filled with rage and fury. I could feel the energy and heat rise from the pit of my stomach. I answered sternly through almost clenched teeth, “YES MA’AM” Now, I knew the end was near. She was gonna kill me dead and it was my fault. Instead, she paused, took a deep breath, and stepped back. Her next words were true genius and saved her from jail time and me from bodily injury. She said, “Me too! You go to your corner and I'll go to mine!”

    She turned and headed to the kitchen and I fled to my bedroom. I hid out most of the evening and stayed quiet. The next morning, all was well again. Apologies, hugs, and a new start. Mama was great about that. Even King Solomon has nothing on my mother.