Monday, March 08, 2010
As I helped Esther into her uber-cool, generic Chuck Taylor high-top sneakers, (Note to parents, these shoes can and will make you late for school) she unwrapped an OB tampon she found sitting on the kitchen table.
"Look," she said, making swirling motions with her hand as she clutched the tampon between her thumb and index finger, the string floating along behind. "It's a rocket."
"Yeah, a rocket," I said. "Now push your heel down."
"Does it hurt when you put this thing inside you?" she asked. (I liked it when she called them pompoms and didn't think to ask what they were for.)
"It doesn't feel nice," I said, struggling with her laces. "In fact, it makes me curse being a woman every time I do it."
She quietly flew her tampon rocket back and forth while I got her other shoe on. I threw her her coat and she didn't catch it. She was holding the tampon between her legs now.
"What if you lit the string on fire?" she asked. "Would it explode like a firecracker?"
"Now that would be exciting," I said. "Would you please get dressed. We're going to be late."
"I'm just going to put this away in my special bag," she said, running into her room.
If only I could muster such intrigue, such reverence, such awe, for all things feminine hygiene.
I am wondering how long it will take her before she digs through her special bag, where she holds all the little bits and pieces of life that have called out to her in some way or another--a marble, a special eraser from the Roald Dahl museum, an acorn from Vermont, a pebble from who knows where, an angel pendant--finds the frayed tampon and says,
"Hmm! I wonder why I saved this?"
When she reads this blog, she'll know.
Recent, earth-shattering BabyCenter posts can be found here and here.