You know, my period left without saying goodbye. It was really weird, one minute I was a regular old girl with that red mess in my pants every now and then, and then – bam- I pop out 3 kids and I’m nursing all the time, and I forget I had periods because the body is so busy making milk that it kinda gives up on periods, at least for me, for those years. And then apparently I’m really old because after the last baby stopped nursing – bam -there’s just nothing going on. It’s like a quiet day at the beach down there. It’s like my twenties and thirties never happened or something.
I’m not that girl who writes about her period. I’ve never been that girl. But I do get attached to things I guess. Like being a viable woman. Like being fertile and alive, in a weird way. Now I’m just gonna be on one long trek toward thicker and thicker sweaters and more and more PBS dramas (period dramas heh heh). It’s true, I can’t stop watching “Downton Abbey” on the treadmill. But my glasses aren’t on a string or anything, and I’m still playing basketball with the kids occasionally. But I have to admit sitting on a rocker on the porch sounds pretty damn good.
Anyway. I hope being reproductively defused isn’t going to send me into a downward spiral. Bess is only five, she still needs food. I guess you don’t have to bleed to make a pretty good turkey sandwich. I don’t know, just wanting to feel useful. Noting the change. Realizing that there are vaults forward, and pauses where you’re looking at stuff. The kids taught me to stop and actually look at ants. Maybe the key is not worrying about the loss, but celebrating the babies.
