Period. A Messy Tale.

One summer day in the mid-1970’s my brother came to me and suggested that I might have started my period. He wondered if I wanted him to talk to our Dad for me. I was too naïve to die of humiliation at the time.

We were “divorced kids” years before it was the norm and were spending a month at our Father’s home in California. I do not remember how this particular scenario played out, which only tells me that it was done well and gently. Somehow, we waded through my coming of age. I find it quite charming that decades later all I remember is my brother’s kindness.

Later that summer we returned to our “other” home, where somewhere along the line my Mom took me into her bedroom, handed me two booklets explaining how girls become women along with a belt and some strange looking wad of padding with strips of gauze hanging off each end. She informed me that I could have one box of these odd items each month. End of discussion.

That is where the trouble began.

*****

The 1970’s were a wonderful time to grow up. Arguably the last great era to be a kid. Schools had more money than they knew what to do with (which meant field trips, sports and arts funding, and extracurricular offerings galore). Your parents felt safe telling you to go outside and play until dinner time. Families still gathered around dinner tables…