Let today be marked as the day my 2-year-old daughter discovered… armpit hair.
Dozing in bed together, Bebe’s head nestled into my side, she’s stroking her fingers against my inner arm. Suddenly, she lifts her head up, eyes wide.
“Ima! Ima… Ima… what’s this?”
I stir and look over at where she’s staring. “Huh?”
Oh. Even without my glasses I can see the shadow of one-day lazy dark fuzz.
“Hair?! Ima’s arm?”
“Yeah. It happens, B. Hair under armpits.”
She’s in shock.
“Hair in Ima’s armpit?” She looks over at her snoozing father, bear king on the other side of the bed. I know what she wants to say.
“Ha, yeah it’s like how Abba has hair there, too.”
She turns towards my huz, looks back at me and then calls out to him, in a voice of desperate concern, what I can only translate as:
“ABBA! Look! Please, look! Look at YOUR WIFE’S ARMPITS!”