First published in the Tri Town Transcript Jan 16, 2017
By Esther C. Baird
A few years back, I wrote about our eldest daughter getting her ears pierced when she turned 10. Actually, as regular readers may recall, it was a few months before her real birthday in order to surprise her. This Christmas, which we spent in Florida, we gave our younger daughter her turn at the early 10th birthday.
When she realized that pierced ears were in her immediate future, she was ecstatic and full of smiles. But secretly, I detected a thin wisp of dread lurking beneath. She had wanted earrings for years, and yet … we had a teeny, tiny needle situation.
You may know a child who is afraid of needles, but you haven’t met our daughter. Nor will your perfect trick to distract her work. Trust me. It won’t. She’s had some extra rounds of medical hoopla that solidified her overreaction, but the “why” didn’t really matter. What mattered was that we not see a needle when she got her ears pierced.
I called a family meeting, minus our youngest, in my parent’s living room to communicate how it would all go down.
“OK, when we walk into the store, I’ll gauge the piercing employee based on a complicated set of criteria that I can’t explain but will sense deep within the core of my mommyhood. Then I’ll give the signal that we are either a ‘go’ or a ‘no.’ No one else is invited to give input.“
It was a short meeting. Perhaps not my most charming. But I knew we had one shot at this. If the attendant did not dazzle, we were out of there.
And so, two cars and six people later, we piled into the local Claire’s boutique. There was one employee.
“Hello!” I began. “Could explain your ear piercing process? We may be interested.“
She smiled and glanced at my daughter with a quick assessing look, then began talking about options.
She was ridiculously young and wore a hipster slouchy thing over a geometric shirt that looked like it belonged in some art class representing something … artsy. She had a giant, almost Minnie Mouse-sized, black bow in her hair that was edgy and possibly ironic in light of all the pink princess bows that hung on the walls of the store. Lastly, she had a nose ring, and her upper ear, not her earlobe, was pierced.My parents, husband and daughters stood watching me, but I already knew.
She was perfect.
She’d been round the piercing block and had a sense of style all her own. She was not dismissive of little girls who dreamed of sparkly things; rather, she exuded a deep knowledge of that dream, which she had merely … evolved.
Possibly I was reading too much into things.
I nodded to my family and looked at my daughter, “OK! Are you ready to pierce your ears?“
She smiled. “Yep!” And she hopped into the piercing chair.
I checked the marker spots the bowed employee drew on my daughter’s ears. Then I stood back while my dad, an amateur photographer, snapped 60, or so, million pictures.
Suddenly my daughter’s eyes got wide. She’d seen the cleverly disguised needle, otherwise called the piercing gun.
“What’s that? Will it hurt??” Her voice got higher and higher and she began to squeeze her knees. I could tell the dread was surfacing. She looked how I felt when I’m atop national monuments inches away from plummeting to my death, which is to say, irrational.
I started to chirp. “This is going to be great. You will love having your ears pierced and you know …“
The attendant stood up and smiled at me. “I’m done.“
What? My daughter tilted her head and stared at me staring at her. There, on her ear, was an earring. Shiny and twinkly and blue.
“I didn’t feel it!” she exclaimed.
The employee stepped from the other side and put the gun down; apparently she’d already pierced the second ear. “I’m fast. Otherwise it can get a little out of hand.“
I loved her. I wanted to pack her up, bow and all, and bring her home to Boston. You know, just in case turning 10 isn’t the only thing that might get out of hand in the years to come …