The Day We Dreaded From the Beginning

I went back and forth on whether or not I should share this, but then I realized I am documenting my history in addition to venting, and this is definitely worth documenting. I'm also trying to entertain my friends who are up all hours of the night with their own problems--help a girl out, right?
It's the day my husband and I dreaded since the psychiatrist told us many years ago that my special child would be even worse through adolescence. That was obvious, but having a professional cement that very sentiment was a frightening realization. Every time Kindsay would burst into the room and scream "I've got blood!", every head would turn in chaos and panic would set in--it didn't even matter who was in the room because everyone felt the same way I did--nothing could be worse to have than a menstruating Kindsay. The last time she did that we were in Utah visiting my sister. Kindsay appeared in an instant at the top of the stairs and exclaimed, "I have blood!" My sister and I were standing at the bottom talking and both of our heads whipped up to her then back to each other then back up to her then back to each other...you get the idea...until Kindsay continued, "It's on my finger--I need a band-aid!" Our bodies must've gone from 0 to 60 and back because we released such relief that we both had to hold each other up. Each year after 11 we bit our lips in anticipation. Was it this year? This birthday? This weekend? The time was ticking, getting more and more away from when we thought it would be that the crazy notion of her never entering true womanhood started to tip-toe in. Halt! Isn't that how it is? The moment we change our thinking, the expected happens. Just when my guard was down. See how this girl is? A master of mischief! She knew my guard was down and I was started to feel like it was never going to happen...only to hear the dreaded line, "I have blood!" Now you can picture this with certainty--My husband and I were standing in the bathroom with Kindsay as she prepared to shower. She had just finished a week-long bout of diarrhea so her showing us her underpants was beginning to be a norm...lucky me, right? She has zero shame, so what comes and goes is on her sleeve. It was as she was getting off the last piece of clothing that she threw her underwear at me and said the line of doom, at which point I was certain it didn't mean what it meant. I was thinking that perhaps the diarrhea had caused some kind of--I don't know, something that would cause there to be bleeding, so I looked...oh my. In the midst of the skidding was a drop or two of womanhood. Next to me stood my husband who cannot even buy toilet paper for fear that others around him would know that he goes to the bathroom and needs to wipe himself. Private? Just a little. I love reminding him that someday he may grow old and feeble and may need me to change his diapers...I think that would warrant suicide on his part because he'd rather die. Kindsay got in the shower with her usual level of drama. I looked at my husband who looked back at me as we exchanged the "OH...NO...IT....ISN'T!" It was Saturday night, the day before the Sabbath which we observe, so we had to act fast. Kindsay got out of her shower (after the usual begging and pleading from us as she runs every last drop of hot water), and went to her room. Years ago, when big sister was just starting her period, I explained to Kindsay that the period meant an egg was being flushed from the body...but nothing more. I knew she'd seen the videos in school, but the whole sex topic has been avoided for obvious reasons. Her sister would leave around the used pads in the place of purpose being young and inexperienced in dealing with those things, and Kindsay would find them only to panic as she questioned why her sister had blood. The egg explanation satisfied her, though she insisted Bek needed to have a baby right away. No.
So here's Kindsay with 'blood.' I told her, I think you started your period, Kindsay. Have you ever seen glee on a person's face with so much of it it scares you? That was Kindsay. "I'm going to have a baby! My sister is going to have a baby! I have eggs! Oh I'm so happy!" My husband and I exchange looks of fear and worry unlike any other. Kindsay, I say, I've never seen anyone happy about this. And no, you are not going to have a baby, not until you are married, and neither is Bek! Her legs are shaking, her hands are clapping, the grin on her face is just too much. She runs out and comes back with a handful of pads Bek left behind. I figured she knew all about that so I didn't do the demonstration. (Why is that? I don't know, I honestly don't know.) I figured she'd only need half a dozen, which is what she had, until Monday so we were good. WRONG...I'm always wrong. Sunday comes and she's used all the pads in the course of 3 hours, I guess just for wiping herself. I tell my husband that he has to go Monday morning to buy her pads. Oh no, he tells me, no way. You have to! If I go to the store at 6 AM and buy pads I'll look like a woman with a crisis--you will look like a loving husband! After 12 hours of begging and setting foot down, he goes in the morning and comes back with, not the Always box of pink pads, just a pink box with pads. A set of pads for those who wear thongs. Teeny, tiny, skinny, 'what's the point?' pads. Needless to say, I picked Kindsay up for her dental appointment after school and as she walked in front of me into the dentist office, I see a huge blotch on the back of her skirt. Apparently, the pads didn't do it for her, and I wasn't a good mom because I didn't do the demo. Ugh. Now then--I have to keep the 'how-to' of sex away from her because she is already soliciting strange men on-line to have a baby, which may just scare them all away if they know she wants that, but she'll find the one guy who shouldn't reproduce and that will be the grandchild I have to raise. I will demo everything else and explain with as much detail I can, but THAT...that will be a secret. I don't want a grandchild that badly...nobody does. In fact, when she asked me "where is the blood coming out of?" I told her "from down there"...and that's all I'm saying. The fact that that was obvious to her but she accepted it as an answer is enough to say, "this child shouldn't reproduce." 'nuff said.

The Poopy Kindsay

This is a story of historical qualities...meaning-it doesn't necessarily happen often enough any more to make a big fuss, but I do need to document some 'good old times' with Kindsay before the dementia kicks in. Kindsay loves the bathroom. Don't we all? We go there to escape, sometimes pretending to have to use it just to get away. From the time I can remember, Kindsay used the bathroom as her place to recollect herself to move onto the next thing, whatever it was. Even at school, the teachers had to make deals with her about her bathroom visits because they were so frequent. But Kinsday doesn't just stand in the bathroom collecting herself. She goes through all the motions, even if nothing is there. I know she's just collecting herself when I know she's in the bathroom and call her name, only to hear her skirt slip back up her legs the moment I say it. On top of that, Kindsay for a while had a fondness for going to the bathroom in the strangest places. It was like a fettish or something (kinda weird to use that word with her, but when it's freaky, it's freaky.) Allow me to enlighten you with some pictures you must create in your mind because, well, I didn't get this on film, and I would've been arrested if I had.
We're at the beach. We know Kindsay's constant need to use the bathroom so we make a camp about 100 feet from the public bathrooms (we're at Avila, you know what bathrooms I'm talking about.) She's about 6 or 7 years old, maybe older. I prop up a tent, one of those tiny ones, to lay Ty since he was baby and it was a good place to let him sleep sans sand. OK, Kindsay, there's the bathrooms, if you need to go, we can go! She loves toilets, but that day, that special day, she thought going to the bathroom somewhere else would make the day more memorable. Indeed.
"where's Kindsay?" we call her name, don't see her up and down the beach, and get frantic. She finally shuffles around in the tent. I swing the tent flap open to find her squatting in her own hand...number 2 I might add. Now for what reason do you think she was doing that knowing the bathrooms were a step or two away? So what is the point in my asking "WHY??" There is no answer, and there never has been...but oh how I ask the question in vain! Poop plopping into her hands as her head shoots up to her new audience as deer in headlights. Back then, things still surprised us so that wasn't a fun realization. It didn't make it easy that we had a baby or two. That meant we had diapers. Oh how Kinsday wishes she were an infant! The way she can STILL, with all 5.5 feet of her, curl into fetal position is amazing. I cannot tell you how many long distance trips we went on to have her cry to use the bathroom every 10 minutes, every..... 10..... minutes, even after we'd just stopped for her so she could merely tinkle in the toilet. Then when not giving in to her demands, we wind up smelling a foul stench of large child urine wafting through the shut in van. She'd slipped on a diaper, found a paper towel, or used a regular towel taken to clean up accidents in the car, and strapped it around her crotch. This would be done in the back of the van, practically in the trunk behind the luggage so we wouldn't see her in the rearview mirror. The diapers would be full of urine, not like little baby amounts, but big kiddo bladders-full. That would force a pull-over, which she l-o-v-e-d. If she can control us, she's in her version of what heaven will be...that and it will have a toilet on every corner. Now if I can get her through adulthood without knowing there are "Depends" for sale in the drugstore down the street. It would be heaven to strap on a diaper all day. And yeah,...she would.