My daughter and I have been invited to “The Menstruation Tea,” also known by its more palatable name, the “Celebrating Changes Tea.” When I first heard about it, I was curious, the way that I feel about certain things when I visit a foreign country. I might understand the value in a local custom, but it might not necessarily be something I need to try myself. I would reserve judgment until I had more information -- especially since I like tea. I would be open-minded, even in my denial that I actually have a daughter who may have changes to celebrate sometime soon.
So, I waited. After a couple weeks, I received the pre-Evite email, which explained the format of the tea:
Part of the talk is going over what to expect in puberty (covering hair growth, body changes, breast development), a simple explanation of anatomy and periods and introduction to pads and tampons.
Okay. This sounds like it might be helpful, even though I am still in denial. I continue reading:
... The second part of the talk is mothers sharing their stories of their first period with the kids (on a voluntary basis of course). This is a vital part [of] opening communication between mothers and their daughters.
Excuse me? Let me read that again. Yes, it did say what I thought it said: “mothers sharing their stories of their first period.” Excuse me?
If I were a better mother than I am, I would have only focused on the purported benefits my daughter would receive from being a part of this menstruation tea. Instead, I find myself flashing back to my first period -- which, I must make perfectly clear, I have not thought about at all in approximately thirty-two years. Now, I remembered parts of it as if it were yesterday, especially the fact that I was wearing white Dittos saddle back jeans and was at pre-seventh grade summer school when it happened. I had thought it was weird that Clyde Noguchi kept glancing over at my below-the-waist area that day as we sat in our neat aisles of desk/chairs, and when I got home, I figured out why. I think I “celebrated” by opening the bathroom vanity and finding my older sister’s stash of maxi pads, and washing my white pants in cold water.
Apparently, now we are supposed to have a party to get ready for this life changing event. I’m not opposed to this, but it’s just very ... foreign to me. I grew up in a community where these things were handled in a more private way. Sure, we had sex education at school, and at home, my mother let me know what to expect, with my sister as living proof. It was low-key and matter-of-fact. I knew I could ask questions, and knew that my mom and sister had answers, if I wanted them. If there were teas about menstruation going on in my community when I was growing up, I sure didn’t know about them.
I suppose it is all about spin, trying to make this transition into something happy and celebratory. Frankly, just thinking about my menstrual cycle makes me cranky. So I guess I understand wanting to present this as something worth having a special party for, but it still seems odd to me. I suppose the message is, “Hurray! You are now at the point in your life when you can start having cramps, bloating, spend a cumulative fortune on sanitary pads and tampons, not to mention birth control (which you shouldn’t need because you better not be having sex anytime soon, but I’ll tell you about it anyway) and you can get pregnant whether you want to or not, even if you are using birth control. And don’t forget the mood swings -- that’s the best part! Yippee!”
If we don’t go to the party, I risk having my daughter being the only girl we know who, whenever she gets her period, doesn’t get all happy about it. She will be doomed to be like me. Crampy and cranky. Maybe it’s just me, but the only time I have been happy to start my period is when I was late and thought I might be pregnant when I did not want to be pregnant. And getting my period when I was actually trying to get pregnant? That was like a dagger to the heart. Crampy, cranky and devastated. Yes, maybe it’s just me. But the reality of having a menstrual period is just not something I have ever felt that celebratory about.
I try to think of an equivalent “tea” that dads would have with their sons to celebrate changes. What would they do? Get together and watch some porn? Put condoms on pickles? Break out the beer and buffalo wings? If this event exists, I want to see the Evite, which I imagine would read: “You are invited to a Big Boys’ Bash featuring Boobs & Buffalo Wings.” Now, let's go around the room and each dad can talk about his first wet dream; Gary, why don't you go first?
I know this is really not something my husband wants to discuss with me, but I feel compelled to draw him into this dilemma I am facing. We talk about it for a while, and he is appropriately engaged and supportive. I read him the email, including the part that pertains to him: “Also, if someone's mom is not available, it is fine for that girl to tag along with someone else. I don't find it works though if dad's attend - the women just aren't as comfortable."
I look up to see him trying to keep the smirk off his face. “Too bad ... you are not invited to the tea,” I said, in the saddest voice I could muster.
“Oh, darn,” he said, in the saddest voice he could muster. And a snicker. For my husband, I am sure this menstruation tea party is just another reason for him to be happy that he’s a guy. I want to wave my oh-yeah-but-you-don’t-get-to-experience-the-joy-of-childbirth flag in his face, but then I realize that this would just make him react in the same way: “Oh, darn.” But he would know better than to snicker.
Further down in the email, there is this line: “... be prepared for the girls to be giggly and say they don't want to come. It is up [to] the mum's to point out [that] this is NOT optional.” Hmmm. So it is mandatory that my daughter go to this, because it says so, right here, in writing? Or are they saying that giggling is NOT optional? What’s wrong with giggling? I like giggling! I don’t agree with either interpretation: for me and my daughter, we reserve the right not to attend, and to giggle if we feel like it, if we do decide to go.
After mulling it over for a couple days, I decide that I need to ask my daughter what she thinks about this. I try to act like I think it would be just lovely to sit around and listen to all the other mothers talk about their first periods. All the while I am thinking, isn’t this what is usually referred to as “too much information?” Do I really want to have some mom’s My First Menstrual Period story in the back of my mind every time I see her, as I am sure some of you will think about white Dittos the next time you see me? Do we really need these visuals of one another? Will they ever go away?
“So, honey, what do you think? A lot of your friends will be going. If you don’t go, you might be one of the few girls who don’t go. But either way is fine with me,” I say in my most reassuring and motherly voice.
“It sounds weird to me,” she says, scrunching up her cute little face, “I don’t think I want to go.”
“Okay, sweetie. Are you sure? If you want to, I’ll go with you ...”
“No, mom. That’s okay. It sounds weird.”
Whew. Dodged that one. I look at my daughter lovingly as I feel the burden of this decision lifted off my shoulders. I think my daughter and I might create our own family tradition and sit down for tea and cupcakes -- and our copy of Ready, Set, Grow: A What’s Happening to My Body Book for Younger Girls -- in the privacy of our own home. Or maybe we’ll wait on that for a while. I’m sure we’ll figure out when the timing is right for her ... and me. With or without tea and cupcakes, I think we’ll be just fine.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Friday, September 12, 2008
e.r.
My son had just started seventh grade, only to come down with a fever and cold symptoms on the third day -- his birthday, no less. After spending the day at home, with me dosing him with cold meds all day long, he emerged from what I thought was a deep slumber at about 11:45 pm. Coincidentally, this was almost exactly twelve years to the minute of his emerging from my womb, helped along by a vacuum suction contraption since it was almost midnight and I think the doctor really wanted to go home. Twelve years ago, he did not let out a big healthy cry for a few moments, since he had copious amounts of snot clogging up his system. When he finally let out that cry, I breathed a sigh of relief and stared at his little face.
Tonight, I stared again, as my son -- again, full of snot -- started to speak. I listened hard, but could not make sense of it. “What did you say?” I asked. He repeated. “What?” I said again, to his annoyance. This went on for a while, until I realized he was saying words that did not exist in any language we knew. It went something like this:
“So, Mom, there were like, these cudjins ...”
“Cushions?”
“No, Mom, cudjins ... so they were like ...”
“Wait, Miles, I didn’t quite hear you ... did you say 'cushions' (pointing at cushions)?”
“Nooooo, Mom. Cudjins! You know, cudjins ...”
Oh my god, my son was delusional. I grabbed his shoulders and looked him in the eyes. “Miles!”
“What?!!” he said, slightly shocked at my panicked demeanor.
“What’s your name? Do you know your name?”
“Uhhh ... Miles.”
“Okay, what day is it?”
“My birthday.”
“What’s my name?”
“Uhhh, ‘Mom’ (dripping with sarcasm).”
Okay, he seemed lucid enough at this point, but I was still worried that the fever had messed up his brain. What to do, what to do? I get on the internet and start Googling. Not much help. I find the hotline on the cough syrup and call; the customer service rep from the Triaminic hotline who said this was not a known issue, and that I should go to the ER.
We get checked in quickly, but then the wait begins. We wait in an examination room, where my son is reclining comfortably in the hospital bed watching cartoons. I am sitting in a very hard plastic chair, wanting to lie down. How bad would it be if I made my son sit over here while I took a little nap? Or maybe I could just have him scoot over a little tiny bit ...
I decide it would be really bad form if I kicked my son out of the hospital bed, and I doze off in the hard plastic chair. I wake up and look at the clock. 2:13 am. I hear the sound of more urgent patients being wheeled down the hall, while I look at my son, still watching TV and looking pretty darn healthy at this point.
I go to find a nurse. “Excuse me -- can we leave now?”
“Oh, don’t worry, we haven’t forgotten about you. You’re next on the list.”
Tick-tock, tick-tock. A little girl and her parents are wheeled into our room, and a doctor comes in immediately to check on her. I move my feet out of the way so the doctor doesn’t trip over me, his coat grazing my knee as he passes. I look up, hoping to make eye contact. Not a chance. I feel like a piece of furniture.
I go down the hall and find a different nurse. “Excuse me, can we leave?”
”Well, you could,” she looks me over and then proceeds with a little attitude in her voice, “but presumably you brought him in for some reason.”
“Uhh, yes, but those symptoms happened four hours ago. He seems fine now.”
“Don’t worry -- you are next on the list,” she says with a smile.
Sigh. Finally, finally, finally at about 4 am, the young, fresh-faced resident doc arrives and interrupts the cartoon-watching. She examines my son and goes over a variety of possible explanations for his delusional behavior, none of which are serious. The “real” doctor comes in about twenty minutes later, confirms what the resident had said, and then sums it up in a nutshell: “This is not uncommon with high fevers.”
Okay. So why did that not pop up on my Google search?
We stumble back into our house before 5 am. “This is the worst birthday ever!” my son moans as he crawls back into his bed. I give him a hug. I can’t disagree, but I feel strangely philosophical about the past five hours. Our trip to the ER has been an eye-opener. During my waking moments, I overheard doctors give vague and uncertain explanations to parents of a girl who was clearly in distress, with the parents reacting calmly, as if they have been here in the ER before, many times. I saw another girl come in for asthma treatments -- her weary-looking young parents also looking like they are very familiar with the ER -- and I am guessing that they either have no health insurance, or their insurance does not cover prescriptions, because my kids have asthma, too, but we have a nebulizer at home that is covered by our insurance.
As I climb back into bed, I try to turn off my analysis of the healthcare system and focus on being home again. I can hear my son in his room, already asleep: snotty, snoring and non-delusional. This gurgling, congested buzzsaw sound has never been more reassuring. All in all, definitely worth the wait.
Tonight, I stared again, as my son -- again, full of snot -- started to speak. I listened hard, but could not make sense of it. “What did you say?” I asked. He repeated. “What?” I said again, to his annoyance. This went on for a while, until I realized he was saying words that did not exist in any language we knew. It went something like this:
“So, Mom, there were like, these cudjins ...”
“Cushions?”
“No, Mom, cudjins ... so they were like ...”
“Wait, Miles, I didn’t quite hear you ... did you say 'cushions' (pointing at cushions)?”
“Nooooo, Mom. Cudjins! You know, cudjins ...”
Oh my god, my son was delusional. I grabbed his shoulders and looked him in the eyes. “Miles!”
“What?!!” he said, slightly shocked at my panicked demeanor.
“What’s your name? Do you know your name?”
“Uhhh ... Miles.”
“Okay, what day is it?”
“My birthday.”
“What’s my name?”
“Uhhh, ‘Mom’ (dripping with sarcasm).”
Okay, he seemed lucid enough at this point, but I was still worried that the fever had messed up his brain. What to do, what to do? I get on the internet and start Googling. Not much help. I find the hotline on the cough syrup and call; the customer service rep from the Triaminic hotline who said this was not a known issue, and that I should go to the ER.
We get checked in quickly, but then the wait begins. We wait in an examination room, where my son is reclining comfortably in the hospital bed watching cartoons. I am sitting in a very hard plastic chair, wanting to lie down. How bad would it be if I made my son sit over here while I took a little nap? Or maybe I could just have him scoot over a little tiny bit ...
I decide it would be really bad form if I kicked my son out of the hospital bed, and I doze off in the hard plastic chair. I wake up and look at the clock. 2:13 am. I hear the sound of more urgent patients being wheeled down the hall, while I look at my son, still watching TV and looking pretty darn healthy at this point.
I go to find a nurse. “Excuse me -- can we leave now?”
“Oh, don’t worry, we haven’t forgotten about you. You’re next on the list.”
Tick-tock, tick-tock. A little girl and her parents are wheeled into our room, and a doctor comes in immediately to check on her. I move my feet out of the way so the doctor doesn’t trip over me, his coat grazing my knee as he passes. I look up, hoping to make eye contact. Not a chance. I feel like a piece of furniture.
I go down the hall and find a different nurse. “Excuse me, can we leave?”
”Well, you could,” she looks me over and then proceeds with a little attitude in her voice, “but presumably you brought him in for some reason.”
“Uhh, yes, but those symptoms happened four hours ago. He seems fine now.”
“Don’t worry -- you are next on the list,” she says with a smile.
Sigh. Finally, finally, finally at about 4 am, the young, fresh-faced resident doc arrives and interrupts the cartoon-watching. She examines my son and goes over a variety of possible explanations for his delusional behavior, none of which are serious. The “real” doctor comes in about twenty minutes later, confirms what the resident had said, and then sums it up in a nutshell: “This is not uncommon with high fevers.”
Okay. So why did that not pop up on my Google search?
We stumble back into our house before 5 am. “This is the worst birthday ever!” my son moans as he crawls back into his bed. I give him a hug. I can’t disagree, but I feel strangely philosophical about the past five hours. Our trip to the ER has been an eye-opener. During my waking moments, I overheard doctors give vague and uncertain explanations to parents of a girl who was clearly in distress, with the parents reacting calmly, as if they have been here in the ER before, many times. I saw another girl come in for asthma treatments -- her weary-looking young parents also looking like they are very familiar with the ER -- and I am guessing that they either have no health insurance, or their insurance does not cover prescriptions, because my kids have asthma, too, but we have a nebulizer at home that is covered by our insurance.
As I climb back into bed, I try to turn off my analysis of the healthcare system and focus on being home again. I can hear my son in his room, already asleep: snotty, snoring and non-delusional. This gurgling, congested buzzsaw sound has never been more reassuring. All in all, definitely worth the wait.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
The Caucus Classic
Another year, another attempted round of golf. The sun is shining. Birds are chirping. All the foursomes have driven their little golf vehicles to their respective starting holes. After going over a few administrative loose ends, I run up to the first tee, where my husband and his cousins, Matt and Jason, are getting ready to tee off. I exhale, trying not to think about the logistics of the tournament.
As I am waiting for my turn to hit, I think back to 1994 when we had our first tournament with a field of 32 players, and no idea that we would still be doing this in 2008. But here we are, our organizing committee -- Audee, Ed, Manny, Gary and I -- filling our roles in making this tournament happen. Just to set the record straight, I want to put it in writing that the Caucus Classic was my idea. Got it? My idea! I was the one who floated the idea in the early ‘90s. Okay, so nothing ever happened with that, but it was still a good idea.
The reality, of course, is that it takes more than a good idea to get something like this off the ground, and the Caucus Classic would not have taken shape if Ed Lee had not taken up golf. The golf bug did not just bite Ed, it devoured him. He became a serious Golf Fiend. As his daughter once lamented to me: “The day my dad learned to golf was the worst day of our lives.” Sometime in 1994, Ed says, “Hey! Let’s have a golf tournament for the Caucus!” and the rest, as they say, is history. Ed suggested a few names, including “The Edwin M. Lee Invitational” and “The Edwin M. Lee Charity Golf Classic.” Since Ed really is the heart and soul of this tournament, those names would have been appropriate. But we still decided on the “Caucus Classic.”
I look over at Jason, who would have been a freshly graduated free-wheeling bachelor in 1994, and Matt, who would have been in elementary school. This tournament is older than my kids. Uh-oh. My turn to hit. Must stop thinking about being old. Not a good swing thought.
I fumble through the golf bag my husband has assembled for me. Since I play once a year, it’s like a goodie bag -- half the fun is finding out what’s inside. Heeeey, what’s this? He actually put the Lady Bertha driver in here! It’s the prettiest club in my bag. I usually hit my Uncle Min’s old Lynx 3 wood off the tee. But this Bertha looks so nice! Maybe I should try to hit it! No, maybe not. I could never hit it very well before. Too much flex. But maybe flex will be a good thing now, since I’m so old. Okay, I’ll try it. Why not?
THUNK. Sigh. Golf is harder than I remember. But I must persevere, because golf is a game of hope. There are multiple chances for redemption on every hole. (In my case, usually about four chances more per hole than you are supposed to have, but it is redemption, nonetheless.) I make the short walk over to my ball, and swing away. THUNK. Sigh. At least it went a little farther this time, and I can justify getting in the cart to actually ride over to my ball for the next shot. I continue my quest for redemption. I can hear my late father-in-law’s voice inside my head: “Golf is as easy as 1 (set-up), 2 (take it back), 3 (swing and follow through). Easy as 1, 2, 3.”
Okay, I can do this. Easy as 1 ... 2 ... 3 ...! Yes! The ball is in the air! It is going farther than I can spit! And in the general direction of the hole! I did it! I am Tiger Woods! Golf is an awesome game! Oh, how I love this game! Oh, how I love watching the ball fly through the air instead of hitting some obscure not-supposed-to-be-in-play tiny little metal sign in front of the water hazard! I love golf!
The fairway reaches out to me with lush green open arms, its undulating terrain beckoning me to play on. Even the cattails seem to be reaching out to me. The course loves me. Golf is such an awesome game. I wonder why I don’t play more often? Golf is so much fun! Hmmm, what club should I hit next? This one looks good, I’ll just use this one. Nice and easy. Good, confident swing thoughts. Happy swing thoughts! Golf is as easy as 1... 2... THUNK. Sigh.
This game sucks.
“Hey, Matt -- did I play last year, or did I leave to watch the kids?” I ask Matt, the youngest member of our foursome, because he still remembers things.
“Yeah. I think you played about six holes,” he says with a smile. (It’s always good to say potentially disparaging things with a smile.)
“Huh. What hole are we on now?”
“This is the third hole.”
I groan silently at the thought of fifteen more holes of torture. Then I realize that I am not groaning silently, but that others can actually hear me. They can probably see me rolling my eyes, too.
By the sixth hole, I am enjoying my round. I have hit my stride, found my groove and am feelin’ groovy. Coincidentally, I have also stopped golfing, and am concentrating on eating snacks. I could use a Twix bar right now. And a Diet Coke. Where is that drink cart, anyway? I watch as my husband hits an incredible drive down the fairway, getting my redemption vicariously. Now this is fun and relaxing. It’s a beautiful day. Life is good.
As I am waiting for my turn to hit, I think back to 1994 when we had our first tournament with a field of 32 players, and no idea that we would still be doing this in 2008. But here we are, our organizing committee -- Audee, Ed, Manny, Gary and I -- filling our roles in making this tournament happen. Just to set the record straight, I want to put it in writing that the Caucus Classic was my idea. Got it? My idea! I was the one who floated the idea in the early ‘90s. Okay, so nothing ever happened with that, but it was still a good idea.
The reality, of course, is that it takes more than a good idea to get something like this off the ground, and the Caucus Classic would not have taken shape if Ed Lee had not taken up golf. The golf bug did not just bite Ed, it devoured him. He became a serious Golf Fiend. As his daughter once lamented to me: “The day my dad learned to golf was the worst day of our lives.” Sometime in 1994, Ed says, “Hey! Let’s have a golf tournament for the Caucus!” and the rest, as they say, is history. Ed suggested a few names, including “The Edwin M. Lee Invitational” and “The Edwin M. Lee Charity Golf Classic.” Since Ed really is the heart and soul of this tournament, those names would have been appropriate. But we still decided on the “Caucus Classic.”
I look over at Jason, who would have been a freshly graduated free-wheeling bachelor in 1994, and Matt, who would have been in elementary school. This tournament is older than my kids. Uh-oh. My turn to hit. Must stop thinking about being old. Not a good swing thought.
I fumble through the golf bag my husband has assembled for me. Since I play once a year, it’s like a goodie bag -- half the fun is finding out what’s inside. Heeeey, what’s this? He actually put the Lady Bertha driver in here! It’s the prettiest club in my bag. I usually hit my Uncle Min’s old Lynx 3 wood off the tee. But this Bertha looks so nice! Maybe I should try to hit it! No, maybe not. I could never hit it very well before. Too much flex. But maybe flex will be a good thing now, since I’m so old. Okay, I’ll try it. Why not?
THUNK. Sigh. Golf is harder than I remember. But I must persevere, because golf is a game of hope. There are multiple chances for redemption on every hole. (In my case, usually about four chances more per hole than you are supposed to have, but it is redemption, nonetheless.) I make the short walk over to my ball, and swing away. THUNK. Sigh. At least it went a little farther this time, and I can justify getting in the cart to actually ride over to my ball for the next shot. I continue my quest for redemption. I can hear my late father-in-law’s voice inside my head: “Golf is as easy as 1 (set-up), 2 (take it back), 3 (swing and follow through). Easy as 1, 2, 3.”
Okay, I can do this. Easy as 1 ... 2 ... 3 ...! Yes! The ball is in the air! It is going farther than I can spit! And in the general direction of the hole! I did it! I am Tiger Woods! Golf is an awesome game! Oh, how I love this game! Oh, how I love watching the ball fly through the air instead of hitting some obscure not-supposed-to-be-in-play tiny little metal sign in front of the water hazard! I love golf!
The fairway reaches out to me with lush green open arms, its undulating terrain beckoning me to play on. Even the cattails seem to be reaching out to me. The course loves me. Golf is such an awesome game. I wonder why I don’t play more often? Golf is so much fun! Hmmm, what club should I hit next? This one looks good, I’ll just use this one. Nice and easy. Good, confident swing thoughts. Happy swing thoughts! Golf is as easy as 1... 2... THUNK. Sigh.
This game sucks.
“Hey, Matt -- did I play last year, or did I leave to watch the kids?” I ask Matt, the youngest member of our foursome, because he still remembers things.
“Yeah. I think you played about six holes,” he says with a smile. (It’s always good to say potentially disparaging things with a smile.)
“Huh. What hole are we on now?”
“This is the third hole.”
I groan silently at the thought of fifteen more holes of torture. Then I realize that I am not groaning silently, but that others can actually hear me. They can probably see me rolling my eyes, too.
By the sixth hole, I am enjoying my round. I have hit my stride, found my groove and am feelin’ groovy. Coincidentally, I have also stopped golfing, and am concentrating on eating snacks. I could use a Twix bar right now. And a Diet Coke. Where is that drink cart, anyway? I watch as my husband hits an incredible drive down the fairway, getting my redemption vicariously. Now this is fun and relaxing. It’s a beautiful day. Life is good.
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