Every 28 Days

Periods.

Teenage girls and periods.

Teenage girls, periods, and a mother's involvement.

Alright, stop:

If you are one of those man-boys that cannot handle the fact that a woman has a period, I insist you stop reading this right this second.  If you are one of  "those" guys that believes or says this: "If it bleeds for seven days and doesn't die," click the tiny X on the top of your screen.  If you fall under one of these two categories and continue to read this, and then decide to comment on this subject, I will be happy to stick my size 8 foot up your ass until you need a tampon.  Got it?

Okay. 

My sweet Haven has joined the ranks and has been a member of menstruating women everywhere for a couple of years now.  When she came to me that day with a wad of toilet paper and asked, "What is this?!" I cried.  I hugged her and welcomed her to the club.  She groaned.  I took her out to dinner because it was the least that I could do.

The way that situation played out was to be expected.  As a mother of a girl, you will spend countless hours trying to figure out the perfect words to welcome and convince your child that menstruation is a wonderful occurrence and the entrance into womanhood.  I had this speech perfected by the time she started, and was ready and waiting for the day when I could tell her how wonderful this development was and how happy I was for her. 

But, we all know differently, don't we? 

What I should have said to that fresh faced little angel of mine was, "I am so sorry.  Just 30 more years and then it will be over.  Come on, I'll treat you to some greasy Mexican food and a stick of butter.  Don't forget to order salt with your salt."

I wished my mother had said that to me, but my mother was out of town the day I started my period.  Uncomfortable does not even begin to describe the conversation that I had to have with my father when I found that there was nothing in the house to help me. 

The conversation went like this:

Me: Um, Dad?  Um, I have a problem, and um.... (blink, blink, blink, tears.)
Dad: What is it?  What happened?
Me: Um, well, um... (blink, blink, blink.)
Dad: OH! OH GOD!  What do you need?
Me: I have no idea.
Dad:  I'll be right back.

And then he tore out of the house and returned with everything that Kotex, Tampax, and Massengil, yes Massengil, ever made. 

(God bless him.  I am sure this instance ranked right up there with many other embarrassments that he had to endure being the father of three girls.  I am sure he thought all the way to the store and back about what he might say to me when he returned.  But, when he did, he just hugged me and handed me all seven grocery bags.  When my mother returned, she looked through the grocery bags and we both laughed.  I miss that man terribly.)

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Every month I get at least one text message from Haven requesting reinforcements.

After so many of these messages, I have become desensitized.  Maybe I am a bad mother.

I am not a mother of a boy, so I can only assume what the most dangerous thing you could possibly walk into is for you, but as a mother of a girl, I know what that is:

A crying, inconsolable, zit infested girl, sitting on the couch eating ice cream with a heating pad, watching some Nicholas Sparks movie.  (That was the best run-on sentence ever!)

(By the way, why does Mr. Sparks continue to write books that are then turned into mega-movies about wonderfully complex people that I would love to know?  Jesus Christ, man, do you think you could write about something other than topics that make me do the ugly cry and wish for the love of my life?  Thank you in advance.)

The best advice my mother ever gave me in regards to menstruation was this: Take two Advil and chug a beer.  I can't wait until Haven is old enough to legally drink.  I'll be passing along the advice.