Flushing hope, period.

It all started when I was newly nine. My mother handed me a maxi pad, all pretty in pink plastic wrap, informed me I was officially a “woman,” and said that this was that thing she’d talked to me about. The bloodied Barbie underpants? The crampy tummy? It was my period. It had happened to me like it would happen to each of my girlfriends eventually and it’d keep on happening until it didn’t happen any more. I should be happy, she said. This meant that someday, when I very grown-up and very married, I’d be able to have babies. I would.

I believed her. I was nine, after all – and she was my mother. I believed her in much the same way as I believed her when she told me a magical tooth fairy slipped that dollar under my pillow! That Mall Santa and his flying reindeer landed a sled on our precariously pitched roof every December 25, mysteriously – and perhaps illegally – entering our home and leaving behind oodles of presents because my sister and I were so damn well-behaved or because he was a creepy old man! I don’t know. Either way.

I know this. I know I was extremely foolish and she lied. Mommy Dearest concocted the Great Tooth Fairy Fib, the Santa Sham and, yes, Pathological Period Puffery. Period. Because, it turns out, not every “woman” who’s very grown-up and very married is physically capable of having herself the babies that are supposed to be her reward for stained underpants and cramps. Or, at the very least, getting knocked up isn’t as simple as the first time a gal has unprotected zub zub with her spouse.

I know. I’ve been menstruating for almost 20 years. That’s 240 months. And my hubby and I have been having lots and lots and lots of unprotected zub zub for the past four of them in spite of which, on Sunday, it happened again. And, lately, for every time it happens, I can’t help but feel like this thing about which I’m supposed to be so extremely grateful is, indeed, the Curse of the Babe-ino. With every flush of ruddied toilet water goes a little bit of hope that I’ll ever have anything to show for all the – ahem – “womanly” things I’ve done…like, you know, launching tampons like rocket boosters into an abyss of vaginal cavity or overdosing on over-the-counter pain meds? That sort of thing.

Look, I was duped. And who can blame me for feeling like this thing is something to be dealt with – and swiftly? Apart from the fact that where my ol’ Aunt Flo is concerned she’s painful and physically sickening, consensus is that she’s also sort of gross, kind of dirty, unsanitary. She should be stopped up. Freshed up. Covered up. Prettied up like the lovely lass in a commercial for Kotex with wings. Ridiculous, sure, but check this out.

Gals in ancient Egypt who didn’t manage to get knocked up softened up some papyrus and stuffed up their parts at the appearance of menstrual blood. In Rome, menstruating women were considered dangerous. (We wilted fruit trees.) And, in the good ol’ U-S-of-A, in 1977, a device modeled after the Del Em at-home abortion kit was patented exclusively for the purpose of extracting a gal’s menstrual blood at once. Because, really, who wants to spend five to seven days oozing from her parts when she could, instead, insert the pump, pump-pump, and skip it! What period?

Even if, like me, you think there’s nothing gross or dirty or unsanitary about it, and even if you get that a monthly period might evidence an ability to get knocked up (might), what Projected Progenitor wouldn’t want to peek into the potty and see a whole lot of nothing when that time of the month rolls about?

This one, that’s who.

This Would-Be Mama’s spouting nothing but the facts, ma’am. Fact is, I’m tired of flushin’ my baby hopes like a Tampax Pearl. Tired. Of. It. Swoooosh.
Advertisements

About Projected Progenitor

Projected (adj.) (prə-ˈjekt-ed): From the 15th Century Anglo-French 'projector,' from Latin 'projectus.' Devised in the mind, predicted. Progenitor (n.) (prō-ˈje-nə-tər): Middle English, from the 14th Century Anglo-French 'progenitour,' from Latin 'progenitor,' meaning 'to beget.' An ancestor in the direct line, foreparent.
This entry was posted in Humor, Pre-Conception. Bookmark the permalink.

5 Responses to Flushing hope, period.

  1. Josee Meehan says:

    >This made me laugh!! I wish that I'd had half your sense of humor when my husband and I were trying to conceive. It took us years to have our first born and now I'm on numero three (in three years). Good luck and be sure to have fun while trying … wish I'd had more fun back then!

  2. >I hope a baby is in your future! Will keep my fingers crossed for you …

  3. Jess says:

    >Hello!I just wanted to say that I stumbled upon your blog via Top Baby Blogs just a few days ago, and have been enjoying it ever since. My husband and I are new to TTC (we just started actively trying this month). But we've had two miscarriages in the past, and the more I read online, the more I worry and wonder how long it'll take for us.I truly hope you get that dream baby that you've been hoping for very, very soon :)

  4. >Thanks so much for the love, ladies! Thinking of you!

  5. >Don't give up! *Sprinkles Baby Dust* :)

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s