They choose their moments. It’s bad enough going to the loo – or at the very least, attempting to – but when you have monthly girly things to do in there, it’s worse. You don’t want to have to be explaining the innermost workings of your uterus to an 8 year old at the best of times. And you certainly don’t want to be called up to the school to do any further explaining.
And those bloody pads with wings. Sure, the ‘wings’ have their uses, and I’m sure the concept is great in theory. But ripping of 73 bits of paper so the bloody thing doesn’t move around in your knickers is, well, it’s annoying.
There I was, doing what needed to be done, the kids walking in and out, the out for good, loud laughing, giggling, excited screaming, a thump and a not so excited scream. More an “Mummy, I’m really hurt” kind of scream.
Knickers and trackies whipped up as best as possible, so as to avoid trippage as I raced to see how much blood, and if it was likely to stain the carpets, coz that would really piss me off.
All good. Do the school thing, the chat to teacher, catch up with other mums, walk to post office box, walk home, sit and do some work, feed baby, put baby down, do best to ignore screaming from baby who did not want to be put down … the usual.
Eventually find time to go to the loo again, right before my left kidney was about to burst and my pelvic floor about to give up permanently.
Rip the knickers down – because it really was at that point of urgency – and, thanks to earlier distractions and not putting wings in the correct place, pondered why women spent so much at their beauty therapist getting them