To Whom It May Concern:
I was in history class in eighth grade when I felt a strange dull ache in my lower back. Going forward, I would rely on this ache as my first indication of the imminent monthly cycle that would be greeting me in a few short days. But that day, the feeling was foreign. Assuming I had pulled a muscle while playing soccer, I ignored it. But the sensation stayed for a few days, and eventually got worse, moving to my lower abdomen. Then, it came. My very first period.
I met this moment with equal parts relief, curiosity, and disgust. Although not openly talked about, I knew that I was behind the curve compared to my friend group, developmentally speaking. Always the smallest person in school, this classification remained consistent even when it came time to say, graduating from the training bra. Come to think of it, did I ever technically graduate from the training bra?
Unlike my friends, this first period marked yet another lonely coming-of-age moment that I’d be figuring out by myself. Being in a blended family with a father as her primary parental figure, some problems were easiest stumbling through alone. And so, I embarked on a week-long crash course in the proper uses of (gulp) maxi pads, all the while thanking my younger self for hoarding the sampling of products that had been given to me four years prior in fifth grade sex ed.
From that moment on, each month brought a new quest in sourcing menstrual-related products to get me through that dreadful week, herby declared my Menstruation Adventure. At times, it meant I’d be stealing from the bathroom stashes of other women in my or my friend’s households. Other times, I’d save up coins to buy the one-off products from public restrooms when nobody was looking. Somehow, I managed to reach my mid-thirties without ever telling anyone that I had finally gotten my period.
Well, until now anyway.
It’s not that the adults in my house didn’t know. In fact, a year or so into my Menstruation Adventure, I recall being asked about it by the woman who had stepped into the role of my mother when I was young. However, as we know from the relationship between Miss Honey and The Trunchbull, a girl’s proximity to an adult woman does not always equate to the trusting and nurturing relationship one might assume.
And so, I lied. Why? I don’t fully know, but lying felt like protection against some sort of looming humiliation. I simply wasn’t accustomed to having access to somebody who could guide me through these weird experiences in a non-judgmental and dependable way. As such, I blindly navigated my way through the complexities of girlhood – becoming my own mother, in a way.
When a person becomes their own mother, they become hyper-aware of what the other mothers are doing. They seek a map, or playbook, if you will.
I studied my friend’s moms, and other older women in my realm. I listened as they publicly shamed my friends for their chipped nail polish or revealing clothing and made sure I always looked respectable. I studied their clothing, observing their perfectly pressed linen summer pants and bought not one but three pairs of capri linen pants approximately thirty years before they would personally become age appropriate. I reveled in pride for years to come when an elderly woman complimented me on said pants at a festive summer gathering.
Over time, I’ve noticed these pairs of women transition from authority figures to peers, and perhaps even friends. I watch in awe as they heed the fashion advice from their daughters to try the flats from the new internet shoe brand, despite never having seen them in real life. They fight like hell for their daughters going through divorces from guys that, if we’re being honest, they hated from day one. They answer the phone, no matter the hour, to advise on conflicts with in-laws or what to wear to a job interview. They post photos from the meticulously planned mother-daughter vacations in faraway places with captions that prove hilarious inside jokes are being made all the while making a lifetime of memories.
I watch these dynamics carefully, with various perspectives. One perspective is microscopic in form, used for imitation. My subjects present me, the analyst, with a blueprint for life. I tune in to these loving dynamics so that I can mimic the way I am supposed to act when I am presented with things like tricky in-laws and job interviews. I imitate the meticulously planned vacations and say things to my own family like, “Memories will be made, god dammit!” I watch as these women advocate for their own mothers working through things like dementia. I notice how they quietly grieve in real-time the realization that they’ll never again see the word ‘Mom’ flash up on their caller ID. I wonder how long it took them to realize how priceless it all is.
The other view is self-reflective. It’s a lens of awareness. I watch these fleeting moments from the sidelines and then greet my tiny pangs of sadness with familiarity, like an old friend. Each pang represents a little speck of sand that when added up together have formed a small permanent hole. I forget about the hole until these moments. The hole is a reminder that sometimes imitation and stubborn independence are not an option. A reminder that some questions in life cannot be solved through tactical calculations by way of the summer linen pant. Questions like, will I be okay? Is this as hard as it gets, or is there more? Where do I go from here? Some questions do in fact need to be asked out loud, to the person with whom one has shared a million fleeting moments. Often, a mother.
So today I ask my first out loud question:
Will you be my mother?
Of course!