The Monthlies

I looked at my eight-year-old daughter and her developing body, and felt so sad. Not because she was leaving her childhood behind as her body readied itself for motherhood. My gosh, she was eight, and this was Iowa. Rather because I was going to have to lie to her. Not that mild deception bothers me, I'd lied about where the rest of the cookies had gone for years. But this was going to be a biggie, I was going to tell her about the menses, the monthlies, and put a positive spin on it.

There are probably some women who will say they welcomed their periods, this all female, only female experience. I think most women, however, no matter how sold on motherhood, would agree they are a burden to bear, a sign that perhaps God isn't a woman, after all.

After all, the monthly comes at the worst of times. If you swim twice each year, there it will be. If you go camping once a decade, there it will be. It joins you at every big dance. So you have to include that totally not-discreet holder, hider of nothing, in your evening bag.

We talk about emotional landmarks in our life, how everyone remembers where - they were when. Well, is there a woman who doesn't remember where she was, who

she was with when she tried to insert that first tampon? And the total discomfort there was wearing one, until we became versed in the appropriate positioning?

Then there's the Peter Principle of the monthlies. If you are in a hurry, the tampon becomes an unwilling participant. You lose that all important string, try to thread it back through that small cardboard cylinder and try again. Or your only one gets damp. You remember.

Being unprepared. It doesn't happen often. We learn fast. The machines in restrooms are always out of order. The convenience store counter is manned, by classmates in our youth, and by students in our maturity. And students don't think their teachers go to the bathroom, let alone have monthlies.

One summer I was taking a class at Lewis and Clark College and due to

assigned lodging in a totally horrific room at a boy's dorm, I called the suggested alternate lodging, an abbey, near the campus. A taxi delivered me to a lovely setting, a simple two-story building and a small unpretentious chapel nestled below the towering evergreens. A nun, in modern habit, knee-length black skirt and white blouse, with her wimple framing a kindly, serene face, walked me to my room. Simple, restful and clean. We handled the necessary arrangements for me to stay five nights, and she left me to unpack and rest for the night. I opened the suitcase and with a sinking heart remembered I had left the bag of needed monthly accouterments in the backseat of the taxi. Needed now, not in the morning.

My nervous system went on a high state of alert. I was definitely unschooled in Catholic conventions and etiquette, but I was pretty certain speaking of the menses with the sisters wasn't recommended as a way to introduce yourself. But the alternative didn't seem very attractive either, stealing rolls of toilet paper and lightly sleeping upon a nest of tissue. When the sister knocked at my door, bringing towels for my morning shower, I stumbled through my predicament.

The sister, remaining gracious, mentioned that the monthlies were a thing of the past at the abbey, but she would see what she could do. About an hour later, another knock at the door came, a different sister entered the room with several pads, and apologized that was all they had. I was profusely thankful. And it taught me that the list of human needs of food, shelter, water, etc. is another male bastion, for my list would certainly include tampons.

So how did I do with my daughter? I wish I could say it was a wonderful moment of mother-daughter bonding, but as I read to Emily a diet-light version of becoming a woman she listened with the blanket over her head. Saying over and over, "This is so gross." When her period arrived, she silently, independently took pads from the stocked preparations. I found out several monthlies later.