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I've always said that when Senia Mae was born she appeared with a poof of glitter. That's not exactly true, it was actually an emergency c-section, but even then it seemed that right after her first bath she was already wearing a tutu. Much to my chagrin, the tutu talk has now flip-flopped into in-depth discussions of bras and makeup.

"Tons of girls in my class are wearing bras," Senia Mae says nonchalantly as we stand next to each other brushing our teeth over the bathroom sink.

"What?" I gasp. "You're seven... girls in the second grade should not need to wear a bra unless they are having a severe hormonal imbalance!" I view my reflection in the mirror and am not sure if the foaming at my mouth is excess toothpaste or my body's appalled reaction to my daughter wanting to grow up too fast.

"Well everyone else is wearing one," she says.

"We don't always do what everyone else does," I say. "By the way, I noticed you've been into my lipsticks."

"How could you tell?" she asks as her face flushes a bright crimson.

"You have to twist the lipstick back down before you put the cover back on."

"Oh," she says. "I was going to talk to you about them anyway."

"About my lipsticks?" I ask.

"Yes, Momma, you have way to many of the same color."

"What do you mean? These are all different colors. There's Tobago, Rain, which is a moisturizing gloss, and this one, custard, is actually a concealer even though it's shaped like a lipstick."

"What's a concealer?"

"It hides the dark circles under my eyes when I don't get enough sleep."

"Oh, like when I come into your bed in the middle of the night and keep you awake by sleeping sideways."

"Exactly," I say.

"Well, since we're both not getting much sleep... maybe I need to use concealer, too."

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