Tampon Tales

To understand the rest of this post, you need context.

So, let me begin at the beginning. I grew up in a very conservative home with very conservative parents and attended a very conservative religious university. As a child I was not allowed to watch The Simpsons---too crass, or Captain Planet---too environmentalist-wacko. My parents opted me out of sex ed in elementary school, but didn't teach me themselves. I remember asking my dad what "well-endowed" meant, watching him become very awkward and gesture with cupping hands at his chest. I was highly embarrassed and learned at that tender age to not ask my parents about anything even remotely sex-adjacent again. 

This didn't stop me from reading Jean Auel's Earth's Children series (which includes rape and sex scenes) in middle school, or from trying to understand my body; I just had fewer resources and many, many roadblocks.

I didn't reach menarche until I was fifteen and a half---rather late for a child. My mom had explained the basics to me when I was ten years old with a Childcraft encyclopedia, but that explanation left far more questions than answers and I didn't know how to ask questions. By the time I was fifteen and a half, there was no discussion of menstruation in my house---there was hardly any discussion about anything, ever---so I was left to reading information on and in tampon boxes as an entrance to womanhood. 

I will mention here that tampon boxes could do a better job explaining how to use their products. I was playing water polo when I reached menarche, and thus needed to use tampons so I could play during my period. The first time I used one, I left the cardboard applicator inside myself overnight because the directions were too vague. I eventually figured it out, but it took me awhile and would have been much better for me if I could have just asked someone. 

One of the things that drew me to Jim, early on, was that Jim never seems to be embarrassed to ask a question when he doesn't know the answer. I really admire frankness in others, and I aspire that kind of open transparency in my own life. I feel that if my child is bold enough to ask a question, I can be brave enough to answer it honestly. 

So, now that you have some background, let me take you to my first semester freshman year (at my very conservative universtiy) early morning Anatomy and Physiology lab class. The light is barely coming in through the basement windows; the walls are tiled, the room echo-y; it is cold, and everyone is half-awake; except for my TA who exudes alertness and enthusiasm. He strides confidently into the middle of the lab; everyone (mostly female nursing students) sits on stools circling him. 

"This is a penis," he says, cupping his hand and holding up a brown chunk of cadaver soaked in formaldehyde. 

"Repeat after me: penis." 

"...penis..." my horrified/awe-struck classmates latently whisper. There are nervous isolated giggles. Remember, most of these people have not ever said "penis" out loud. 

"Penis," he says louder. 

"penis," we quietly repeat. 

"I can't hear you," he cups his other hand, the one not containing shriveled cadaver junk, next to his ear and yells, "PENIS!"  

"Penis," we say. 

The TA repeats continues his call and repeat sequence until the whole class enthusiastically shouts names of various genitalia. For a crowd of extremely conservative co-eds, this was *radical*.

And I could not have loved it more. 

Anatomy & Physiology was my favorite class of my entire college experience. It's a bummer that I took it my very first semester because---honestly---nearly everything after that was a let-down (except for Women's Health Issues my senior year). It's been seventeen years since that class, and I still love to study anatomy. I love the body and how it is so absolutely weird and wonderful, and I have extremely few scruples when discussing bodies and various bodily functions. 

This comes in handy in my day-to-day life. 

One morning, Rae runs to me aghast and indignant, sputtering and fuming with too many feelings of injustice. It was rather early for so many feelings from such a small person. I barely had both eyes open. 

"MOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMmmmmmmm," he wails. 

I really was not awake enough for this. 

Not waiting for a response, he launches into his complaint. 

"YOU. HAD. ICE. CREAM. WITHOUT ME!" 

At this point, I am rather baffled. One, my eyes are blinking, trying to lubricate themselves and get ready for sunshine; two, I feel like donating my uterus to science (again) because menstruation; and three, my brain can't register the words Rae is saying. 

"What ice cream?" I ask. 

Rae rushes to the trash can, grabs the offending pint, and stomps back to me. 

My brain fog is clearing, and I glimpse the pink container. 

I can't help it---I laugh when I recognize the pint of not-ice-cream. 

I explain that is a tampon box and because we have regular discussions about menstruation and bodies; Rae immediately grasps the situation and his anger deflates. 

He and I would both rather have had ice cream. 

~~~~~~

Recently, a friend recommended organic cotton tampons, so I tried them. Turns out, I like them a lot. If you have to stick something there, it might as well be organic. Everything else is. 

Menstruation happens regularly (one would hope 🤞🤞). Jim, bless him, lacks any embarrassment picking up sanitary supplies for me when he goes shopping. Because the feminine hygiene aisle is dauntingly complex, Jim asks for specific instructions, which I appreciate. 

Recently, the instructions have been:
-get [this brand],
-definitely do not under any circumstances get [that brand],
-and if [this brand] is unavailable, just find one that says organic cotton. 

Jim is adept at following instructions. He came home with organic tampons that worked just fine. Yay. 

Because I am still that person, I read the tampon box and all the pamphlet information---almost every time, and definitely when switching brands. I am not entirely sure why, but I haven't outgrown the habit. Perhaps I read it so I can remind myself of all the symptoms of Toxic Shock Syndrome. 

However, TSS was not the most interesting part of this box. 

This was:

 So, of course I *had* to read it to Jim. 

"Huh," he says, "...ghosts told me to stick herbs up there is their marketing strategy." 

My humans-without-vaginas make me laugh. 

Keeper of the Zoo

 Of my kids, Caleb is most similar in temperament to me. He cannot sit still long enough to watch a movie; he doesn't like to sit still to eat, and he is endlessly organizing his brothers to do things with him.  

Like random face painting after school. 

Joe wanted a heart, and then he wanted gold glitter on his heart, so we got craft-herpes everywhere. Caleb wanted to appropriately dispose of the glitter (yay), so I told him to shake it out at the garbage can. I neglected to tell him to take the lid off the garbage can first. 

Based on the first picture, you'd conclude that Cay was putting on rouge. Not so. I didn't really get a good picture of the final face paint job, but this is close-ish: 

He told me that the black above his eyebrows was to make him look fierce, like a warrior. The blue on his chin reminds me of Mel Gibson in Braveheart. Cay also told me that he was going to wear his face paint to school the next day to show his friends. Nope. Not happening. It took six attempts, but he finally washed all of it off his face before bedtime. 

I've been volunteering at the school. Right now, I am mostly working with Rae's class (making copies and doing math facts), but I've started helping out in Caleb's class, too. 

One of the small people in Cay's class told me that I look like a zookeeper. 

I laughed. 

Why, yes, I am the keeper of the zoo. 

Dear Goodness, What Happened to November?

 

November is a historically difficult month for me. My body shuts down and tries not to feel anything until mid-January-ish. Which is disappointing because I wind up missing out on three holidays and two kid birthdays. Like I just can't muster up the enthusiasm. 

I think that I *finally* acknowledged that this-is-a-thing for me last year. I think acknowledging that there is a problem is probably the best first step to doing anything about it. Even if that first step is just saying, "Hey, there's a problem." I think talking about it helps, too. I think medication definitely helps. 

[Sidebar: Can we talk about how hard it is for people with mental health issues to reach out and get help? First, I have to be able to acknowledge that there is an issue; second, I have to know what the resources are; third, those resources have to be actually helpful. Any misstep along the way derails my ability to get help for myself.] 

Speaking of medication, mine had a hiccup. The script was not written correctly, and I ran out. So, I went from maintaining somewhat normalcy to sobbing on the phone to a stranger trying to figure out the logistics of getting my prescription refilled. It was overwhelming. I know logically that I just need to keep pressing forward to figure out a solution, but I just didn't have the spoons to do it---which left me frustrated and sobbing to strangers. 

So---instead of pressing forward for a solution--- I just waited it out. Fortunately my prescription refilled yesterday and I got my first good night's rest in awhile; hence, I have enough spoons to blog. I really enjoy blogging, but it is very hard to do when my brain feels like it is circling the drain. 

This morning, Rae saw the pharmacy bag for my prescription medication on top of the garbage. 

"What's that?" he asked 

"It's medicine to make my brain feel better."

"How does it do that?" 

"My body doesn't make enough neurotransmitters, so this medicine keeps the ones it does make in circulation longer." 

"Why is that important?" 

"Without those neurotransmitters, I tend to sleep too much, cry, and be easily irritable. I lose interest in things I enjoy, stuff like that. I need my brain to function well, so I can feel good enough to function." 

"That makes sense." 

I have this bizarre, boot-strapping desire to make myself function well---no excuses! Like, it is a moral failing if I can't make myself be better. I've come to realize, it is not a moral failing. It is just what it is. I got a set of conditions and circumstances that I manage, and those conditions/circumstances don't inform my character. It is rather a relief to separate who I am from what I deal with. 


So, November, here are my birthday boys: 

Joe got a mommy dog with a zipper pouch on her belly and four puppies inside, among other things. Wouldn't that be easier? #zipperpouchenvy

Cay got geodes which he smashed with a hammer and a foam stomp rocket (I highly recommend this one, but when the pieces need to be glued together, don't use super glue. It doesn't work, and I wound up gluing my fingers together. Use a hot glue gun, instead. #lessonlearned) 

I don't have pictures from Thanksgiving, on account of my body surrendering to two four-hour-long daytime naps because 1. booster shot; 2. Aunt Flo; and 3. lack of brain medication. The collision of those three things together was like Dante's ninth circle. Fortunately, Caleb also napped with me for my second nap. 

Speaking of my booster shot, the boys got their first dose! We went to the county health department, and there was a news crew who asked to film/photograph my three kids getting their shots (I have no idea if that actually made it to the papers), and I said, sure! It'll be a circus. 

I was right; it was a circus. 🎪 🎪 🎪

Cay went first and was arrogantly stoic about the whole thing, telling his bigger brothers, "I did it; it was soooo easy." 

Joe was inelegantly sandwiched between me and Jim, squirmed like a caught fish, more or less subdued, and quickly shot by an expert. He howled indignantly for ten seconds then promptly forgot about it when handed a sticker.

Rae, dear Lord, bless his heart. He was all kinds of panicked about getting his shot, even after watching both his brothers (maybe especially after watching his brothers). I don't want to know what the health department workers or the news crew filming us thought of my parenting after listening to me word-grapple with Rae, which ended abruptly when I promised to sit on him with cold-hearted sincerity and a three second countdown. 

I honestly thought that Joe and Cay would more difficult. Nope! Not this time, anyway. 

When we got outside, the railing had round, colored stickers that the health department used to quickly identify who needed what, where. Apparently, everyone took off their stickers after walking out the door and decorated the rails, the signs, and the lamp post nearby. It was actually quite cute, so I needed a picture. 

As for post-shot reactions: Rae's arm was warm and sore; Joe seemed to have no reaction; Cay needed very long naps.

Since Cay never slows down, we were quite thrilled with this side effect.

Goodbye November. Onward, December, ho!