Period.

When I was a young lad, I really didn’t seem to care about things concerning life.  I mean, I was raised in a strong Christian household, so I knew why we were made, what God’s purpose for us, and things like that.  But the “simple” things weren’t really important to me.  Like why the sky is blue, where babies come from, or, let’s say.... Why women have to bleed a week out of every month for an eternity.

Due to my lack of concern, I never talked to my mother about what exactly a period, or menstruation, was.  Heard of it, had an idea of what was going to happen, didn’t really care.  So, when I was twelve, and I woke up one morning to get ready for school, it caught me off guard, to say the least, to see that I was bleeding.  I felt my pulse.  It was normal.  I didn’t have a fever, none of my body parts were detached, so I figured something went horribly wrong, but I had to catch the bus.  So, I took a shower and hand-washed my underwear.  

At school, after gym class, I had to use the powder room.  Blood, again.  What in the world was going on?  You would think that I would panic or react, but, I just got some toilet paper and neatly slapped it (yes, I slapped it) on my underwear and went on to my next class.  It would work itself out sooner or later.

This steady bleeding pattern went on for about a week.  Did I tell my mother?  Nope.  Did I confide in my older sister who was 20 years old? Nope.  Did I even tell one of my close girlfriends at school?  Nope.  I don’t like to worry or draw attention to myself, so I thought I’d keep this weird phenomenon to myself.  After all, it did stop.

About 28 days later, I’m in the bathroom, getting ready for school, and to my surprise, this situation had reared its ugly head again.  (You got to be kidding me!?)  I look back and think of how many underwear I washed by hand during that time.  I mean, I would wash more than one a day sometimes.  I could not, for the life of me, understand what was going on, but I stayed strong and thought a little.  I started recalling something about the “turning into a woman” jazz, and put two and two together, and figured that I had reached that point in my life.  Yipee!  After cleaning some underwear and putting some tissue on my new ones, I went to my mother and told her in a matter-of-fact-type way that I had “a menstruation.” I didn’t even know the right jargon for it. I’m pretty sure, I rolled my eyes, too, since that is my trademark expression.  

Her eyeballs dropped to the floor and she got all excited.  Then she had to call my older sister to the room and announce that ALI HAS HER MENSTRUATION!  Why this was some sort of celebration, I did not know.  I was not pleased.  

I did know that I was annoyed of  losing blood on some sort of “schedule” and, furthermore I was tired of washing underwear.   So my mother introduced me to the sanitary napkin and gave me instructions.  Now, that was the good news.  I found toilet paper to be rather flimsy and not necessarily the best thing for these occasions. So, there was some good news, if there is a need for a bright side.

* * *

I am reflecting on this story because a few months ago, my younger sister asked me if I remembered how old she was when she got her menstruation.  I was thinking why would I know?  We don’t communicate about mess like that.  Then she told me her story.  

She had a digestive tract problem and when she was around 11 or 12, it was really bad.  She was bleeding all the time and had to have surgery.  Well, dealing with all this blood was a common place for her, but then she discovered additional blood from a different source. (Neighbors though.)  

She didn’t feel the need to burden my mother with any more bad news, because my mother was on the verge of a nervous breakdown also referred to as an “Academy Award for Best Dramatic Performance.”  If she were a paid actress, she’d be up there with Meryl Streep with the most nominations. (Things like “My baby gonna die!  I’m gonna lose my baby!” were common sayings in the household, even when the baby was up and about and within an ear shot of the grim declarations.)  

So, my sister decided to tell me her "initiation into womanhood" story.  (Mind you, I didn’t remember any of this.)    As a pre-teen, she came into my room and said she had something to show me.  I didn’t like being interrupted when my door was closed, but I reluctantly followed her to the bathroom.  As she reflected on this story, she hadn’t told me what she showed me in the bathroom.  But whatever it was, I knew.  I knew she had stepped on the womanhood platform.  So, I went to the linen closet, threw a bag of sanitary napkins at her and told her to read the directions then went back to my room to do whatever it was she interrupted.

This has got me thinking:  What is wrong with my family and communication?  It’s like no one wants to talk about the subjects that involve bodily functions and things sticking out of things they weren’t meant to.  This is how I lived my childhood.  Don’t get me wrong, we were a very close family, and still are, but some things were best kept inside our own heads.

Now, today, I am a mother of a daughter.  I already told the five year old when she starts this process in the late future, she can have the talk with Daddy, because, I still don’t know why it happens.  And for some reason, my husband does.  All I know is my husband and I used to celebrate Period Parties, because it meant no babies.  Other than that, I was never told, never cared and maybe should consider sitting in on my daughter’s health classes when she gets to that point in school.  I suppose I need to understand for once and for all.  

Hey, there is a reason that “they” say “better late than never”.

Ain’t No Mother Like the One You Got (No One Can Know You Better)

Before I start typing this, I must take a deep breath.  Okay.  Now, we’ll began.

In my younger years, as a child, I never wanted to play house or play with baby dolls. I was never a tomboy, but I didn’t like committing to a husband and children at such a young age.  When I hit my twenties, I still was in the non-commitment box, but with children.  I was happily married months before I turned 22.

Now twelve years later, after two children and a maternal detachment due to my psychotic attack and depression, I have come to a realization.  No one can take care of my children as well as I can.  No, I’m not saying there are no other people who can handle them.  Obviously that is not the case.  I mean we have the grandparents, uncles, aunts…. My husband. 

But I, being a stay-at-home mother, know their quirks, their dramatic interludes, their ups, downs, highs and lows.  I know when they need a “kick in the pants” or a tender hug.  I know when they will eat what I made; I know when they will spit it in a napkin while my back is turned.  I know them.  I get them.  I can build them up just as fast as I can shut ‘em down.

I know everyone is familiar with the phrase: “If you can’t do it right, I’ll do it myself.”  I hate that this phrase is true.  But, it is oh so very true.  So many people think they can fix things and help things and understand.  And I just sit back laughing in my head (sometimes out loud) knowing that my child, or both of them, is playing this person and I can see through the mess.

I can usually maneuver things nicely throughout the day and have no hectic-ness.  But other people come over and see tears and want to baby them or try to assist. And for the most part, I may let them, but I know I‘m going to have to make some adjustments once they leave.

Please know that I appreciate the help I get.  From the bottom of my heart, I really do.  But, I know my kids.   I know them.  And they can be some scheming sneaky little people.  They can also be some darling little blessings.  But, the only one who knows for sure is the Mama….and that would be me.  I’m sure all you mothers out there can relate to this.

Remember this blog is about real stuff.  No sugar-coating, no preservatives, no additives.  I am 100% organic in my words and I speak truth. 

Kids Don't Care

I was checking the news on my favorite online source, and noticed a story about a Twit-pic that was mistakenly posted.  A celebrity husband took a picture of his son, I suppose in the parent’s bedroom.  Unbeknownst to him, in the background you could see a glimpse of his wife lying on the bed with her breasts uncovered.  The comments from people were so illogical.

 Who are you (the irate protestors) and why are you not using your brain? Let me relay some pertinent information to you, my dear protesters: Kids don’t care.  And when I say kids, in this blog, I am referring to the little precious dear ones that are under the age of 5, sometimes 6!

The comments were basically saying that a mother should not allow her children to be around her when she is disrobed.  And truth be told, that is probably a true statement.  But there are some ignored boundaries that need to be understood.

I don’t know if the comments were from people who didn’t have children, or people that just raised a perfect little nobody.  But, as stated above, kids don’t care.  Privacy is a foreign word to young ones.  

But, first, before I let you in on the unspoken horrors behind the scenes, here’s the background of the celebrity with the uncovered breasts.  At the time, she was a mother of three, her oldest being four years old.  (She has since given birth to another child.)  Her youngest was an infant at the time of the tweet, so most likely, she’s breastfeeding.  Whipping out a breast for the purposes of sustenance is probably a common occurrence in this house.  So, with that information, I shall begin.

Upon entering the delivery room to have my first child, I realized that I will never have privacy again.  At first with the endless adults, whether family or hospital staff, everybody was “up in my business.”  Now that I am a mother of two young children, I really don’t have privacy.  That is until around ten at night, when they are fast asleep, assuming they don’t get up again and again to let me know things they feel (but I can assure are not) important.

My son comes into my bathroom one day, as I am finishing up a shower.  He tells me, “Mommy, I don’t like you naked.”  Well, maybe if you weren’t busting in the door to tell me Tom and Jerry just went off, you wouldn’t see my naked body.  

My daughter and son come into the bathroom, as I am sitting on the toilet bowl, asking me what I am doing.  They have been potty trained for some time, so they very well know what I am doing.  I just look at them, and politely ask them to leave.  They just stand there giggling.  I ask them about two more times, until I am forced to shout: Please leave so I handle my business.  I mean, I have to go there.  They come in any time they want, they go in my stuff, and they are everywhere.  They ask personal questions, too.  

On the other hand, my dear husband gets exclusive bathroom rights.  He can go in the bathroom and they see him walk in fully clothed, then they see him coming out, fully clothed.  They probably think his skin is an ever changing wardrobe.  But when it’s my turn, I can’t lock the door.  Usually my husband is at work, and I have to keep the door unlocked, in case they need to come in and tell me something i-m-p-o-r-t-a-n-t.  You know, the house is on fire, the Mothership has landed, whatever may be necessary information at the time. Unfortunately, they think when a show I DVRed goes off, it’s a big cause for concern, and I must be interrupted at all costs, even if they must see my horrible naked body.

So, to all those absurd comments about a mother allowing her child to be in her presence while she wasn’t fully covered, you need to calm down and recognize that kids these days just don’t care.  And they will remain all up in your business.  

I mean, it wasn’t like her son was rubbing Lanolin on her bosom.  That would most likely be a reason for concern.