Every time that bitch Flo comes to town, I swear i’m not going to spend her entire visit complaining about her. I’m going to be the adult, i’m going to completely ignore her and go about business as usual…but there’s just something about that stuck up, selfish, bearer-of-pain that infiltrates my every thought and action and all I can see for a full 7 days is red.
After last night’s period/man hating blog, I guess I pissed off my innards enough to wage a full fledged war on me as soon as I opened my eyes this morning (after a full night of vivid nightmares about who the fuck knows what). The pain and irritability, they are fantastic- but nothing ever quite compares to the AMAZING level of awkward moments it can create when you have a very curious 4 year old little boy helicoptering over your every move because you’ve refused to tell him what the fuck a menstrual cycle is.
Don’t you judge me. I have my reasons.
There’s just no easy way to explain to a little boy that my uterus is in a vice grip with the occasional pass of a cheese grater.
It’s not that I don’t think it’s important that my children understand why NOT to fuck with mommy for 2 weeks out of every month- oh I do– it’s just that a 4 year old does NOT understand the first rule of Period Club- DO NOT TALK ABOUT PERIODS. That is lost on small kids with absolutely no filter.
The last thing I want is my kid going off to kindergarten and bragging to his little friends; “guess what MY mommy can do?!” and convincing them that I am a bloody new super hero… or villain.
There are many things I think would be horrible to get calls home from school about like fighting or pants crapping or 4-letter word usage, but the discussion of my menstrual cycle? That takes the fucking cake.
So no, I have NOT told my kids about periods or vaginas or uteri or any other awkward female parts or byproducts (other than boobs.. those were unavoidable). I try not to even mutter the word “tampon” around them, and they don’t know the word “vagina” (which i’m positive would be mispronounced Bagina)- but that does not mean I haven’t gotten the 3rd degree.
Helicopter kid, remember?
Yes, it does tend to get mighty fucking awkward when Holden asks me what that string coming out of my “end” is, referring to it as a “tail”, or calling a used tampon in the toilet “mommy’s bloody doodoo” or asking me about MY pecker- and sometimes i’m not sure which the lesser of two evils is… but then I remember being humiliated at home alone is a million times better than in public surrounded by strangers who would laugh at my expense.
Dear people writing articles on ways to get siblings to get along, I'll save you the time. The answer is "Don't let them play together"
Please stop Complimenting my kids’ “Good” Behavior goo.gl/fb/rwfojS
Hard pass from me pic.twitter.com/VayvW1eopK
I've gotten to the point where I'd let my kids summon a demon with a Ouija board before I'd let them play Monopoly together again.
Parenthood is when you start counting the minutes to bed time before 11am.