It's Ok

In other news.....

Who's fucking idea was it to buy a house?  Oh.  Yeah.  Mine.

I love my house.  It's cute, and old and a little charming.  It has 5 excellent acres, and the view from the back yard is pretty damn picturesque. 

But most of all....it's mine.

I haven't even lived in it for 3 months, and already it feels more like home than the house I rented for 7 years. 

That being said.....it was a fixer upper.  That's the only reason we could afford it.  We had an inspection done.  We had a friend who is a contractor come out and look at it and tell us what needed fixing and how much that would cost.  We had a pretty good idea of what we were getting ourselves into.

Or so we thought.  Every day something else is wrong.  We worked on the house every day after work and every weekend for 2 months solid.  It was to the point where I was paying the babysitter more than going to work was worth.  I would leave for work around 8am and wouldn't get home again until 8pm.  My son was visibly upset by the lack of time he was spending with us.  My daughter's schedule was a constant juggling act.  We were so tired and so burned out.....we just couldn't do it anymore.

So....I pulled the pin and we just moved in.  It wasn't ready....but if we were waiting for the house to be done it would be years before we could move in.

So we moved in and set up a make shift bedroom in our dining room.

First night there, we found out just what "no insulation in the walls" means.  We froze.  The dining room is on the opposite end of the house from the new pellet stove we installed.  It couldn't have been more than 45 degrees in there.

My daughter's room is right above the dining room.  She also froze, but she sucked it up like a big kid and didn't say anything.  The one time in her life, ever, that she just sucked it up and didn't complain and it was over something totally reasonable to complain about. 

The next night she slept on the couch....next to the toasty pellet stove. 

My son spent most of that first week sleeping in our bed with us.

The first night, my husband brought him in bed with us at the wee hours of the morning, and the poor boy's legs and feet were icy.  The very next day I was at Walmart picking out fleece to make him a baby sleep sack (like a blanket they can't take off). 

The 2nd day we were there, my husband messed around with the heating duct and cleaned it all out, replaced it in some places, and POOF it's warm in there now.  In the duct work was enough cat hair to make two cats.  Hmmm...Maybe that's why the heat circulation sucks.

I spent the rest of that first week trying like hell to unpack.  It turns out that trying to fit a 3500 sq. ft. house into an 1800 sq. ft. house is like trying to get a fat girl into a wetsuit.
I have NO CLOSET SPACE.  I have maybe 8 less kitchen cabinets than I had in my previous house.
There isn't so much as one shelf, cabinet or closet in the bathroom.  I have an entire box of bathroom stuff that is still sitting in a box in my living room because I have nowhere to put it.

After 3 weeks of sleeping in the dining room, during one of the coldest winters in history, our bedroom was finally sheet rocked, taped and painted.  We moved our bed upstairs.

The next day we put up pet gates and brought the dogs home.  Our poor dogs had spent the previous 3 weeks in a kennel at my parents' house because I didn't want my un-neutered stud dog hiking his leg on my bed (Because I'm an unreasonable bitch like that).  I pulled into the driveway with five dogs in the back of my car, barking and drooling like....well like dogs.  My husband stood in the doorway and called the mongrels.  They all lost their minds.  Being stuck in a kennel for that extended period of time made them a little hyper, but they're home now and starting to settle down.

In general, my attitude about the house is different than my husband's attitude.  I see it as an investment, as a milestone, as the place my kids will grow up and where we will spend our life.

He sees bills and work.  To his credit.....there are plenty of both. 

 

The Boy's Birth Story

~~~~Go ahead and skip this if you're not all that interested in hearing about the birth of my bouncing baby boy.  There's not all that much funny in here.~~~~~

My son was due to be born on May 15th.  It was the longest, most miserable, most emotional and dramatic pregnancy ever.  I won't repeat what I've surely written before.  But it sucked!  It sucked so much that I tied my tubes the next day, and only regretted it for a minute in a purely philosophical way.

This is the story of the day and a half that was the culmination of the previous 9 months.

So he was due on May 15th.  On April 30th, my water broke in a series of events that I can't even believe....go ahead and read that post here....I'll wait....

So as I'm alternating between the shower and the toilet waiting for my mom to get there with pillow sized maxi pads, I called my midwife.

I was all excited, and a little breathless.  I didn't want to be pregnant for another 2 weeks.  I'd also started contracting while I was in the shower.  Not painfully, but it was there.  I'd timed it.

So I told my midwife that the contractions were 4 or 5 minutes apart and lasting about 15 to 30 seconds....etc etc.

She told me to take a nap and call them when I was closer to the 5-1-1 rule.

My mother took my daughter home with her, much to the kid's distress.  She wanted to be there when her brother was born.  I explained that this could be a long process.  I wasn't even going to the hospital yet.  When it got close I would call her in.

A couple of hours go by.  The contractions were starting to be a bit uncomfortable.  They were also about 45 seconds long and 2 to 3 minutes apart.  The hospital was 45 minutes away.  So I pulled the plug on my planned long period of laboring in the comfort of my own home, and we decided to go to the hospital.

To his credit, husband was very calm.  I didn't expect that.  I thought he'd be freaking out a little.  He calmly packed his bag while I finished packing mine.  The baby's bag had been packed for a month.

As we were driving to the hospital the contractions were getting stronger.  It was harder to focus on the conversation I was having with my husband, and every time a contraction came more water leaked out of me. (on to the two towels on top of a plastic garbage bag that covered the seat....he was pretty grossed out by the chance that my fluids might touch his upholstery)

We arrived at the hospital at like 11:00pm on Tuesday night.

I keep calling it a hospital.  Actually, it was a birthing center.  I think this is a noteworthy distinction.  It was a birthing center.  I had a midwife, not a doctor.  I had a one page birth plan, that started out as a 2 page birth plan but I pared it down to one to be less obnoxious.

I was going to do this naturally.  No drugs.  No Pitocin.  No unnecessary procedures.  No interference.  I seriously considered doing a home birth. 

So, back to the story.  We arrived at the birthing center at like 11:00pm on Tuesday night.

They were expecting me, so they take me back to their triage area so they can determine whether I'm actually in labor or not.  I was wearing a wrap skirt and a comfy black tank top and flip flops.  I was determined to remain in this outfit.

So a rather bitchy nurse takes all of my vitals and then hands me this belly band type thing.  She asks me to put it on so they can keep the baby monitors under it so as to not have to mess with straps.  I agree and go into the bathroom to squeeze into it.

The very next contraction after I put that damned thing on was the worst one yet.  All of a sudden there was a pain in my left side, just beneath my ribs, to go along with the already uncomfortable contractions.  The pain was worse than the contractions.  I said something about it to several nurses over the course of my labor, and they all said that it was probably just the position of the baby and there was nothing they could do about it.

So they admitted me and brought us to a room and what not.  I handed everyone in the world my birth plan.  Then they left us alone.  They came back often, and strapped that monitor to me.  It wasn't long before I ditched the stupid belly band.  I also ditched the wrap skirt once I ditched the underwear for easy of hoohah access.  Ditching the underwear meant I ditched the pad keeping all of those lovely fluids from soaking everything within 2 feet of my vag.  One contraction and my skirt was soaked. 

So rocking a hospital gown and slipper socks I walked around the maternity floor.  Up and down.  Up and down.  Up and down.  I sat on a birthing ball.  I took a shower.  I ate and drank and once we got into the wee hours of the morning I tried to sleep. 

By morning, my contractions had dropped down from every 2 to 3 minutes, to every 5 to 6 minutes.  By lunch time they were every 8 to 10 minutes.  I had been one centimeter dilated for 2 weeks already, and I hadn't progressed beyond that. 

My midwife came in at some point on Wednesday.  She suggested that we go home and come back when the contractions got going again.  We talked about it and decided to stay.  We were already there and the room was actually pretty comfortable and the 45 minute drive wasn't something I wanted to make if it got hairy.  So we stayed. 

Although my contractions were getting farther apart, they were growing in intensity.  Every time I had a contraction, I tensed up, bracing myself for the pain.  This was the problem as it turned out.  Instead of relaxing into my contractions and letting my body work, I was fighting it.  Hence, I wasn't dilating.

Every time they laid me on the bed and strapped that monitor to me, it was so much worse.  They wanted me to stay there like that for 20 minutes every hour.  It was the longest 20 minutes ever. 

By midnight on Wednesday the 1st (or maybe it was Thursday the 2nd.....yeah I guess it was since it was midnight) I was a mess.  I was tired.  I was in pain.  My husband, though supportive and helpful if I asked for something, had no clue what to do for me if I didn't ask for it.  He mostly slept and watched TV. 

He was sleeping when the nurse came in at around midnight.  I asked her to check my cervix.  They had been staying out of there since my water had broken to keep from transferring bacteria from hands to snatch.  But I begged.  So she did.

I was only 3 centimeters dilated.  I had been contracting for  28 hours  and I was only 3 fucking cm???

I broke.

I started crying like a little sissy girl.

Part of my birthing plan was for no one to offer me drugs, so I wouldn't be tempted.  Its easier to say yes when offered something you don't believe in than it is to ask for it outright.

This nurse asked.  She told me that I needed to sleep.  That it was ok.  She could give me something that would help me sleep and just take a little edge off the pain.  I cried harder.  I told her I would think about it.

I got off the bed and walked over to the bed/chair that my husband was sprawled out on.  I sat down next to him and sobbed.

He woke up after a minute and panicked a little. 

I told him that she offered me drugs, and that I wanted to take them.  That after all of this pain and time I was only 3 cm. and I didn't think I could go on like this without some sleep.

An emotional discussion later and I was pushing the nurse button.

I took the drugs.  She came in and gave me a shot and I fell into sweet, sweet sleep.

I could still kinda feel the contractions.  My drug fogged brain was alerted to some pain for a minute, then I was out again.

Around 3:00 am I woke up.  I had a horrible contraction, and had to go to the bathroom.  I was instructed not to get out of bed without help, but I really had to go and I was sure I could do it. 
I managed to haul my foggy self out of bed and shuffle to the bathroom.

The "I have to go" sensation had been a long standing thing.  The last day and then some had been a non-stop feeling of having to go to the bathroom.  Part of it was that I really did have to pee.  A lot.  But several times a day I thought I had to poop.  I never did poop, and the nurses all said it was just pressure from the baby's head, which had been pressed right up against my cervix for a week anyway.

So I sit on the toilet to attempt to go to the bathroom for the 20th time that day. 

And everything changed.  I started to use the muscles we all use to go potty, and I felt the unmistakable urge to push.  Which turned into a need to push.  Which changed to my body doing it's damndest to push that baby out.  If you've never had a vaginal birth I can't actually explain this to you.  If you have....you know exactly what I'm talking about.

I said "Holy shit, I'm pushing" and pulled the string in the bathroom without hesitation.

The little voice came over the speaker "what's wrong?".  Because the strings are for emergencies.  I said "I'm pushing".  And 12 people came rushing into my room. 

They ushered me back to the bed.  The rest is a vague memory.

They asked questions.  They strapped the monitor to me again.  They had me turn on my side.  On my other side.  On my hands and knees....this one was tough because the sensation to push became 10 times stronger and they kept telling me not to push.  I actually said "I don't know how you expect me not to push like this".  (I was really rude because I was still foggy from the drugs.  I apologized later.)  They put an oxygen mask on my face.

Finally they announced that they couldn't find the baby's heartbeat and I was going to have to push this baby out right now.

They called my midwife.

Through all of this my husband slept on the chair that was a bed, or the bed that was a chair...whatever.  I said "Honey, wake up!! I'm having a baby."  And he did.

They rolled me on to my back and told me to push.  They wanted me to just continuously push.  At once point the nurse between my legs said "no, keep pushing" and I said "but I'm not having a contraction" and she told me to keep pushing anyway.  Which I didn't, because I couldn't. 

When I pushed, I made noise.  Loud noise.  Xena Warrior Princess kinds of grunts and yells.  They told me to be quiet.  I ignored them.

At least twice my husband tried to leave the room to go call my mother.  Yes...really.  The 2nd time (I think) I lost my shit.
H:  I'm going to go call your mother.
Me:  The hell you are.  She can't even get here in time and I'm having a baby and you are going to fucking stand here and hold my hand!!

So finally the nurse said, "there he is, push hard honey".  And I did.  She told me to push through the burn and get him out of there.  So I did. 

Out came my son.  I pushed him out in less than 20 minutes.  They cut the cord, which was wrapped around his neck, and had him across the room so fast I didn't even see it happen.  There were nurses in between my legs, in my face and all around me, asking me questions and doing things.   All I could hear was the nurse (the same one that offered me the drugs) saying over and over again "come on baby, come on little guy, come on".  And he didn't cry.  For like 2 minutes.  Two minutes is a very long time.  I kept asking "Is he ok?  Is he ok?  Is he ok?"

Finally he cried.  It was honestly the best sound I've ever heard and I honestly thanked a god, that I've never been too interested in, for that cry.

They finally brought my son over to me and laid him on my chest.  I looked at his little, gooey, bruised face and said "Hi baby".  My husband took a picture.  Then almost immediately they took him away.  Off to the place where they keep babies they are worried about.

So the "burn" I was told to push through was actually me tearing.  Part of my birth plan was that I didn't want an episiotomy.  So even if there had been an individual around that was qualified to do it, they wouldn't have cut me.  It sucked.  Ripping is worse, don't let them tell you different.  Several stitches.  My midwife showed up just after all the excitement was over and assisted in the delivery of my placenta and stitched me up.

It was hours before they brought my son back to me.  He was small and pink and had a stupid IV in his little arm.  Apparently he took a dump on his way out and they wanted to be sure he didn't breathe in any of it.  Good call, right?   

He had bruises around his mouth and a nearly black eye from the effort I expended on pushing him out.

My husband was sure I was going to be in labor for another day or so.  I was too.  Apparently it was the drugs that did it.  I was fighting my body so hard that it took a drug induced sleep to allow my cervix to dilate.  So I literally dilated like 7 cm. in like 2 hours while sleeping.

My daughter showed up a few hours later.  My husband had called my mother shortly after the boy had been taken away by the birthing center staff and filled her in. 

The girl loved her little brother on sight, and I have the most beautiful picture of her holding him for the first time with this adoring look in her eyes.

My mother said that if I hadn't had that baby soon, she would've had to hit my daughter over the head with a large frying pan.  She was restless and worried and just couldn't stop asking about me, and wondering various things about her brother.  It was cute.  Glad it was her, not me. 

Two days later we finally left the birthing center.  The sun was shining and I spent the next fucking week in my bed with the baby, recovering from the episiotomy and having my tubes tied.

But that's another story all together.

To The Mattresses

It's been almost a month, and finally we moved our bed into the bedroom last night.  We drag the mattress upstairs.  It's a tight squeeze. 
Me:  "Guess what isn't going to fit up the stairs?"
Husband:  ::::Blank Stare::::
Me:  "The box spring."
Husband:  "Oh sure it will, watch me."

Meanwhile, it had taken squishing down the mattress a bit to get it to fit up the stairs.  Box springs don't squish.  But I kept my mouth shut.

So we get to the part where we intend to take the box spring upstairs.....we had to take it out the front door to get it pointed straight at the stairs....hubby starts up the stairs backward, I'm standing outside holding the other end.  THUD!!

The box spring hit the top of the door frame. 

We tilt it to the left.  Thud.

We tilt it to the right.  Thud.

He actually tried to squish it like the mattress.

No go.

So he starts taking apart the door frame.  One piece at a time. 

An hour and a half later, there is no door frame and the box spring is upstairs.

So I guess when he said "Watch me" he meant "watch me break the house so we can get the box spring up the stairs".

Deflated

You know when someone gives you a lecture, and it's meant to be a pep talk....to pump you up to do better....but all it does it make you feel defeated?
No?
Well that's me today.  Someone that probably meant well decided I needed this talk.  She is totally right by the way.  Not that I needed the talk.  I didn't.  In fact, it was probably the last thing I needed.  I'm overwhelmed enough as it is.  I'm tired, and sore and buried so deep in life that I'm struggling fruitlessly to just scrape away enough to see the light ahead. 
Then came this "talk".
She was right about several things that she said....not all, but several....but it didn't have the desired effect.
Now....I'm just done.  Fuck it. 
She meant it to fire me up to try harder and do better.  I don't want to try anymore.  I don't want to do any of it, let alone do it better. 
We bought a house.  It's a huge fixer upper.  Every day I get up, get my 11 year old on the bus, then go get myself ready for work.  Then I wake the baby up, feed him, change him and get him ready to go to my mother's house.  Then I get my ass to work.  I work as many hours as I can manage to.  Then I go out to my new house and work there as much as I can without pissing off my sitter.  On the weekends I have to try to find a babysitter so I can go over there and work some more. 
I have barely begun to pack.  We have pushed back our moving date twice now. 
I have so much to do, and no time to do it, and in there somewhere I have to find time to buy groceries, cook dinner, take care of my dogs and horses and kids. 
I'm completely burned out and exhausted.
Last week, my boss went on vacation.  I busted my ass trying to hold together the loose ties that he left in his wake, just trying to keep things going while he was gone.
Now I get this lecture about being focused on work while I'm at work, and I just want to slap her.
I just want to say, fuck it.  The house can sit there empty for as long as it takes to get it done.  We can move one fucking box at a time, because that's all the time and energy I have for packing. 
I'm already to the point where I can't do this anymore, and then I get a lecture. 
Sigh.....I need a nap.

Misadventures in Painting

Thursday morning I threw my back out.  That's a very vague concept...throwing out one's back.  The specifics involve a disc that hates me and every now and then decides to get angry and cause me a lot of pain in my lower back. 
It's never a good story either.  The first time I injured my back I was taking off my pants.  I bent down to slide my pants down my legs and couldn't stand up.  The second time....I coughed.  I was sick and the cough threw my upper body forward a fraction of an inch, and my back screamed at me.
This time I bent down just a little to lower my son into his exersaucer. 

The pain involved in this tiny movement is amazing.  What it means for me is probably a week of being unable to do much of anything.  Sitting hurts.  Walking hurts.  I can't actually stand up totally straight.  I can't bend over.  I can't lift much.  Getting out of bed in the morning takes several minutes....and hurts.

None of which is conducive to remodeling a house that we were planning to move into next weekend.  I was sanding the floors, and meant to continue to do so this week....but that's out of the question now.

About the only thing I can actually do right now is paint.  There is a lot of painting to do, so that's fine.  The main priority is painting the kids' rooms so we don't have to move all of their crap around to paint after we move in.

So on Sunday I was painting my son's room.  I had put two coats on the walls and it had dried.  I was moving around the room taking tape off of the trim and putting new tape on the walls so I could paint the trim.

When I had started sanding the floor in his room, I removed the floor register so I could sand around it.  I hadn't put it back yet because I wasn't done sanding in there.

I had put down a clear plastic drop cloth to keep the paint off the floor (I'm a horrible, messy, slob of a painter).  You know where this is going now I'm sure.....

So I had walked past the 6" x 10" or so hole in the floor at least 5 times by now, and had said to myself "Don't fall in the hole...."

I'm a terrible listener.

I go to pull the tape off the trim near the closet and stepped directly in the hole in the floor.  My leg instantly plummeted into the basement and stopped when my thigh got wedged in the hole about halfway to my Hoo-hah.  There was this big, metallic crash as the ducting that lets heat flow into his room fell to the basement floor. 

So I'm sitting there....thigh deep in a hole in the floor.....with terrible back pain.  I hauled myself out of the hole and plopped my ass down on the floor.  It hurt.  A lot.  There was sheet metal stapled inside the hole in the floor.....it's no longer there. 

So I'm sitting on the floor.....crying.  Crying because it hurt.  Crying because my back hurts more now.  Crying because I can't believe I put my foot through the register.  Crying because I can't do anything else but paint this stupid room.

As if on queue.....my husband walks in.

"How's the painting going?.....Why are you on the floor? ....Are you crying?....Why are you crying?"

So I tell him the story.....his response?

"Fuck!!  You mean if I'd walked down here two minutes earlier I would have witnessed that?!  Damn it!!"

I will be posting the details of his funeral later.

The Husband on Menstruation

Warning....Graphic Language and Gross Descriptions....



Picture Courtesy of Red Wombat Studio

There.....warned you.

I didn't have my period for 9 months.  That tends to happen when you're pregnant.  It was great.  Then I popped out a kid, and bled like a sacrificial bull for six fucking weeks.  I'm breast feeding...which is considered a viable form of birth control.  You aren't supposed to get your period...or ovulate....while you're breastfeeding. If that is how it went for you.....fuck off.

 A month after I stopped bleeding all over the place from child birth, I got my fucking period.  My best friend, who had a baby 9 days before I did, still hasn't had a visit from Aunt Flo and our children are 8 months old.  I hate her.

I had a bilateral tubal ligation (tubes tied) the day after my son was born.  If that right there doesn't tell you how fantastic my pregnancy was.....

I had been on birth control my whole life.  Or at least I'd been forgetting to take my birth control my whole life anyway.  Regardless of the frequency of the stuff, I was doped up on artificial hormones more often than not for the last 15 years or so. 

Armed with my fancy new tubal ligation, I no longer need to take pills to keep from having any more darling little pooping, crying, snotting love muffins.  So.....my first few periods after the boy was born were.....interesting.  Apparently those hormones were all that was keeping my uterus from hemorrhaging all over the place.  Like dying Niagara Falls red.  And I wasn't expecting it.  My cycle had always been pretty consistent.  So when I was changing feminine hygiene products every two hours, I was a little taken aback.  I didn't throw out the paper pillows they call pads at the hospital...thank god.

My husband has a dickhead's view of a woman's menstruation.  It is definitely brought on by Satan, and should be avoided at all costs.  Which is ironic, as he definitely gets his period more often than I do.

Earlier this week, I got my period overnight.  These are the events that followed:

My husband brought the baby in our bed around 7:00am, waking me up.
I had to pee.
I announced that I had to pee so that Husband was aware it was his job to keep the baby alive.
I went into the bathroom and discovered that I had made a bit of a mess.
I finished my business and stripped off my now stained pajamas and jumped in the shower.
My dear husband walked into the bathroom, holding the baby, just as I had stepped out of the shower and was drying off.
Husband:  "I thought you were just going to the bathroom?"
Me:  "I bled all over myself."
Husband:  "I know....you got it on the bed."
Me:  "Oh, well if you knew.....ugh...never mind...I will take care of that in a minute."
Husband:  "Well hurry up, I have stuff to do."
Me:  "....................."
Me:  "Honey, what would you do if I got blood on you?"
Husband:  "Probably die."
Me: "And then immediately shower to wash it off of you."
Husband:  "No, I think I would burn my skin off instead."
Me: "Ok well....fuck off...I'll be out in a minute."

He means it.  He thinks it's battery acid and would kill him on contact.  If I didn't have better things to do I would chase him around the house with a used tampon.  I imagine it would sound a lot like Goofy falling off a cliff. 





  

Shit My Kid Says....Part Deux

"Mom....My boobs hurt."

Yeah....I bet they do....you little.....
My daughter is 11, and officially hitting puberty.  It started about a year ago.  Well, to be fair, it probably started 2 years ago when I noticed that the 10 year old should probably start wearing training bras.  You see....she's a little husky.  I was too.  At 10 I totally had little fat girl boobs, and to this day I curse my mother for not slapping a bra on me.  I absolutely blame her for my less than perky state.

So she has been wearing a bra for a couple of years now.  She has been getting progressively bitchier for about a year.  To the point where, I swear, if she opens her mouth again I'm going to duct tape it closed...and throw her in her room until she comes to terms with her hormones in about 5 years.

I was a wretched teenager.  I can't believe that my mother let me live.  I used to blat that my mother was abusive when I was a teenager.  Now, I see that she was the absolute image of self control.  I deserved every one of those swats she gave me for being a wretched bitch.  (Except maybe one.....oh ok, all of them.)

My daughter is going to be every bit as bad as I was....perhaps worse.  She and I already have an antagonistic relationship.  We are so alike that we butt heads constantly.  I can't let it go and neither can she.  Now that there are hormones involved, and my patience is already thin because I have a fucking teenager and an almost toddler at the same time, I might have to pack her off to boarding school for her health.

About 6 months ago, she and I were at the doctor's office.  It was a hot day, and she was wearing a sleeveless shirt.  She lifted up her arm to fix her pony tail....and the bush of hair that peeked out from her armpit was right in my face. 

I said "Honey....when we get home I'm going to teach you how to shave your armpits."
This lesson was interesting...and came with a threat to her life if I caught her shaving her legs, and a warning that if she shaved that little blond peach fuzz on her upper lip she would end up looking like her Aunt Sybil. 

Tangent:  My mother never taught me these things.  I didn't even know arm pits should be shaved until I was about 13 and a teenage boy (go ahead a cringe...it's ok) commented on my hairy state.  He wasn't discreet about it.  (Ewww! Shave your pits!!)  The first time I shaved my legs....on my own, with no instruction....I did it with my dad's razor and sliced my legs to ribbons, followed by the worst razor burn known to woman kind.

When she started crying for no reason 2 months ago, I showed her where to find the panty liners and sent her teacher a warning email.

Last week, she says to me......you know what, never mind.  It involved her unmentionables, and funny as it was, I still don't feel right talking about her lady parts on the Internet.

The point being that the arm pits weren't alone.

So when she told me last night that her boobs hurt......I showed her where the panty liners were again.

We live with my husband (who is not her father) and a male roommate.  God forbid the poor girl have to ask my husband what to do if she gets her aunt flo while I'm not home.  Poor girl.  Poor, poor Husband.  He can't even tolerate the fact that I bleed regularly (an entire post devoted to this will be published tomorrow)....I don't think he would handle that conversation well. 

So I'm just sitting back, waiting to teach her how to remove blood stains from sheets and underwear.  It's going to be any second now.  In a text book somewhere on pre-menstrual teenagers is a picture of my daughter.....any time now.  I wonder if it was that obvious with me.