When I was a flat-chested nine-year-old, I wanted more than anything to sprout a pair of womanly breasts. I even went so far as to cut my pristine white undershirt in an effort to create a make shift bra. I didn’t realize the stretchy knit fabric would flare out rather than hugging my non-existent chest. Rather than explain my hasty effort at undergarment creation, I crammed the offending garment into the corner of my dresser drawer and resorted to trying on my older sister's bra. What girl didn’t do that (with a little padding, of course)?

Now that I’m nearly eight months pregnant and have had to buy larger bras to support my ample bosoms (“baby’s milk jugs” – as they’ll soon be used for), I laugh when I think about those days. Why was I in such a hurry to grow up? What is it about breasts that make girls feel both self-conscious and self-confident nearly at the same time?

The other day I overheard my daughters discussing the deficiency of these mounds of flesh. My oldest critiqued the fact that my second daughter hadn’t been graced with growth yet. I cringed. Again, why are girls so eager to grow up? When I thought how much she isn’t missing, but feels she is, I had to speak up and tell the older daughter to leave her alone. That won’t stop the push to grow up, though. No amount of parental scolding, lecturing and story-telling can stop that.

“What if I end up like her?” says my fifth grader, pointing at a fairly small-chested, but attractive woman.  How do I explain that a woman’s chest size doesn’t determine her happiness or her value as a woman? I guess if questioned further, I would have to reveal that I once worried about the same thing. How do we instill in our daughters the self-assurance that supersedes any cup size given later in life?