Life with Ladybug: I love you, period

 

By Shannon Magsam, Ladybug’s premenstrual mama

When I’m in the clutches of a bad case of PMS, I sometimes get on my hands and knees with an old towel and a bucket of hot, soapy water to take out my frustrations on the linoleum (UGLY, horrible linoleum that should be replaced with tile and still has nicks in it from when the ANNOYING, CARELESS refrigerator movers scraped it). I scrub and scrub, which makes the floor look better and improves my mood. It’s best if I get to the linoleum before I get to my husband and daughter. Like last night when I banished them to her room with the book, Carousel Cat. “Just go read!” I yelled and they fled.

Often, I have a good cry the night before I “start”. It used to surprise me. I’d cry, wonder why I felt so desolate, then, like clockwork, grudgingly accept a visit from Aunt Flo (yes, I acknowledge my dorkiness for even saying that). After years of being perplexed, I now just anticipate it. Sometimes I don’t even have any PMS symptoms (I’m sorry for all you girls out there who would love to be able to say that) but when I do, it’s a struggle to play nice.

Recently, Ladybug had a few questions about my monthly visitor. Yes, she’d seen me use a tampon before, but I’d always been able to distract her – or sneak off to a bathroom – before removing the darn thing so she wouldn’t be disturbed by the blood. But this time, in the mall bathroom, she saw me and got very curious. “Let me see. Let me see!” she demanded as I tried to quickly wrap it up and toss it. I whispered to her that we’d discuss it when we left the bathroom. “Why?” she continued to inquire. “Because it’s private,” I said.

When we got out of the bathroom, I took her to the bench in front of the bookstore and explained about periods. I told Ladybug that it was only for a few days each month and it wouldn’t happen until she was much older. She looked horrified and said she didn’t want to use one of those things I’d just used. So then I told her that there was a bandage-type thing you could put on your panties instead, if you wanted to. “That’s what I want to do,” she said, relieved.

I didn’t tell her that I started my “period” at a fairly young age, just after I’d participated in a little beauty pageant. I think my mother thought it was jitters, not cramps. Then, when we got home, there it was. My mother cried. So did I. So will I. And it won’t be PMS.