Becoming a Woman

I’ve never understood women who relished and looked forward to the moment they would become a woman. You know what I’m talking about – periods. In nursing school we would spend time exchanging stories of when we first got our menses. The one that makes me laugh the most is the one where Ellen said she went in the bathroom, looked down, saw her panties and (here she holds her head up proudly) said “I’m a Woman!” I gaped at her in disbelief.

Some women I speak with say they never knew what was happening to them. My mother saw to it that that did not happen to me. I think she had visions of a Norman Rockwell painting in her mind since she made a point of sitting in the rocking chair and having me sit at her feet. Understand, we did not have a history of “mother/daughter talks” so my suspicions were up from the get-go.

I should say here that the news came as a COMPLETE surprise. I had no sisters and my mother had a hysterectomy when I was born…there were no clues in the house. Looking back at that conversation, as I sat there looking up at her and listening, I don’t really remember what she said. I only remember impressions and a feeling of “ok, cut to the chase”. Her talk went through my brain basically as “blah, blah, bhah, bleeding, blood, blah, blah, blah”. My mother, smiling down at me, paused for effect. I took the opportunity to ask my first question, a wary “Does Kevin have one?”

“Well, no”

Poor mom. At this point I stood up, screamed “THAT’S NOT FAIR!!” stormed to my room and slammed the door. I was good at slamming the door. They were good, old wooden doors that had some heft to them, not the hollow core doors you sometimes encounter. The apartment shook.

I railed against the heavens in my room. The powerlessness of the situation dawned on me. No matter what I did, I could do nothing to prevent the inevitable advance of womanhood.

I wanted to be a baseball player.