Another TMI story that my Facebook friends have heard. But one definitely worth elaborating on.

In order to avoid those frequent, mind-numbing questions that my children tend to direct at me at the WORST possible times (i.e., first thing in the morning, before I’ve had my coffee; last thing at night, as I’m about to fall asleep), I try to hide my “feminine hygiene” products from prying eyes. As most women do… I think. I mean, more power to the chick who leaves her box of Tampax in the middle of the bathroom. I just couldn’t do that… Until now.

“Ava,” my youngest at the age of six, found the box and leered at me, “You stick these UP YOUR BUTT, don’t you??”

That accusation entailed a conversation about how she was SO CLOSE, but not exactly correct. I decided to tell my girls the truth about menstruation.

It started off innocently enough. “When a girl gets to be a little bit older…”

As I contemplated what words would come out of my mouth next, I realized just how HORRIFIC they sounded: “…she will bleed from her private parts once a month.”

Both girls ran screaming from the room.

Look, we can’t blame them. At all. Because that totally sounds like something out of a B-rated science fiction movie. A woman bleeds from her privates once a month. Jesus. Might as well tell them that an alien will burst from their chests. (Come to think of it, TWO aliens burst from their chests around the same time as the bleeding from the vagina…)

Later on, “Nora,” my eight-year-old, confided, “Mom? Can’t I just be a boy instead?”

I gathered her in my arms and smiled wistfully. “I remember wishing that same exact thing at your age. But being a girl is amazing.”


Eh… “Well, we get to be mothers.” The look on my child’s face told me what she was thinking, which was exactly what *I* was thinking. Oh, so we actually get the chance to experience an alien exploding from our private parts?

Right. I racked my brain. Realizing that everything I came up with had a condition attached and I was not in the mood to go into it, I said, “Girls are smarter.”

She grinned. “Are they really?”

I grinned back. “Yeah. Definitely. But we don’t tell the boys that too often, because they couldn’t handle it. They’d throw tantrums and start wars in a foreign country somewhere.”

Satisfied with my answer, she said, “I won’t tell them, Mom. Those poor, silly boys.”

Poor, silly boys indeed.

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