the piercing gun

When I was eight years old, my mother took me to the mall to get my ears pierced. I remember wanting nothing more than dangling earrings that I could swish and swirl with each turn of my head and that could catch the florescent lights of my third grade classroom, all shimmery and glinty.

When I got it done, I sat on a high stool at Claire's and don't remember much except lots of people watching me and thanking the good Lord in heaven when it was over and done with.

Of course, I was eight, so my ears got infected when I neglected to clean them and I can remember many nights spent crying as I tried to force the studs back in and hide the terrible redness from my mother (who, lovingly, decided to believe me when I told her that of course I'd clean them twice a day and not let them get infected or close up like Rachel's did--which I thank her for. I had good intentions).

But I feel as though getting my ears pierced was some sort of rite of passage into biggirldom and I wouldn't take it back.

So, when Mary decided last week that she was finally good and ready to get hers pierced (at the age of ten), I was probably more excited than she was. I even brought my camera in to embarrass her a little more.

Before, she was excited and giddy and just a teensy bit nervous:


Then, the girl started marking her ears and her smile started fading:


Right before she counted to three, the nervousness factor skyrocketed:


And then, she lost it, and almost came out with one pierced ear instead of two:



But hey, I'd still call it a worthy experience she can tuck under her ten-year-old belt. Plus, I had a blast.


Note: I'm not making fun of Mary for having such a low pain tolerance, or for being such a baby. In fact, she laughs about it now and I'm sure she'll get a kick out of seeing these photos up here.
I hope.