It is two days in to Spring break, meaning I have already hid in my car once, for ten minutes. Please judge me. I have given up all illusion that I am gifted at mothering, that illusion fell before Kat got here, when my mucus plug fell out and Divorcee had a panic attack because the dog went to lick it.
I handle these moments with logic intelligence. I suggested perhaps the dog liked yogurt.
Just like this past week, 48 hours with Kat and no break means that of course 400 questions turns to 4 million and somehow animal products with hormones led to the inevitable period talk, a break I was hoping for since the sex book came around Christmas.
I wonder who was more confused or disgusted, her or me? It’s a toss up.
She was horrified I got naked in a bath tub two whole times.
It was just easier people.
Nana said it was the best book to read but my dear God were the lady and man in the tub ugly, and cartoon people too.
She wants boobs, claims her arm pits are aching, and I hide tampons even though I saw her peeking at the back, the instructions to hard to pronounce, so thank God that day she couldn’t sound out “MENSTRUAL” the day I had to get out the door for work.
Lola has been giving Kat hysterics pretending her and Luke are a couple, her red hair in a lop sided Princess Lea bun, telling her pretend boyfriend that Darth Vadar is dead, Kat falling over in laughter.
I told Divorcee they play too much Star Wars on Wi.
When I explained women bleed, that yes, I had been ten, but hopefully she will be much older, she turned white, leaned on the fridge and gasped, “OH, fridge please help me!” She said, exasperated, “Are you telling me that girls pee blood?”
When she regained composure, she said, “Mom, what happens to boys?”
Oh, Good Lord.
Well, they have a penis, which gets hard and causes an erection. I don’t know a lot but THAT statement is definitely true.
Her hands went straight to the hips.
“So, are you telling me that girls have a choice to either have a baby for nine months or they bleed into their panties and boys have THAT?”
She was furious.
Then defeated, moaning dramatic wishes she were a boy, she finally put her head down in exhaustion.
Lola, princess red head Lea, popped up from behind her (probably listening to the entire conversation) yelled out her sister’s name, just to startle us both.
“You can’t go to the dark side, Kat!”
I thought she was referring to Darth Vadar but she said with conviction, “Kat, boys do not wear high heels. You DO NOT want to be a boy.
Boys can not wear bootiful things or wear buns like this,” she said, pointing to a pig tail frizzed out, the other too high up, tightly wound.
I don’t take sides normally, but for future reference Lola, yes they can, and you may see that when your my age, most my favorite gays wear lip gloss and the occasional few look better in makeup than me, and even some women deal with facial hair so I will close this debate with Kat, gavel down, jury over ruled that yes, Boys with their erect penis problem and pitchy throats don’t have shit on bleeding and never dying, pushing out ten pound heads, nor do I think they mind erect penises at all.
I never remember any boy complaining, in fact, I think they are proud of it.
Time for another trip to the car.
All this blood and erection and Darth Vadar talk has me feeling a little whoozy.