Not Ready

I'm not ready for this: One has the beginnings of a mustache.

Okay, I'm done crying. I can go on now.

It's not one of those straggly teen things - he's only 10, for Heaven's sake. But it is, undeniably, there. A rectangle of peachfuzz the exact same color as the hair on his head. It's as if a teaspoon of testosterone was poured in his ear and has mixed around inside to create ... this. It's so faint that I can't provide you with a picture; you have to get right up close to him to see it at all. But it's there and it's never going away.

Sob. He's my BABY. I may never get over this.

The funniest thing about it? He's proud of it. The night before last I heard Two singing at bedtime "One has a mustache, One has a mustache!" and I yelled at Husband for "telling" - but One proudly announced that he was the tattletale, and then happily accepted Husband granting him the nickname of "Luigi", and proceeded to stride around the room twirling an imaginary handlebar mustache.

Help! I am not ready for testosterone to enter my life in such a fashion! What am I going to do?