12. Travelling in London

Date: June 6, 1989

Age: 12

I don't know why I am writing this to you. You have been a smartass all morning. Now you just stole my pen. Anyway, how many of these vehicles have you been on this trip?
Love, Dad

The date for this postcard reads June 6, and there is another postcard from this same vacation dated June 6, but I am 99% positive that we were actually on this vacation in July of 1989. For one, I have a card postmarked June 7, 1989, from Montreal--I have never been to Montreal, and I don't think my Dad flew to there when my mother and I flew back to the States. Furthermore, on July 4, 1989, not only did I observe that it was my first Independence Day outside of the USA, but I also got my period for the first time. Therefore, I think my dad simply misdated a couple of postcards.

I must divert from the usual run of Dad memories for this one to focus on my mother, because this memory is ridiculous. In regards to my first period: one day I wasn't feeling quite right, and I noticed that my underwear was stained in a way I had never seen before. I even though perhaps I had crapped myself a bit, but surely I would have known (or smelled) such an embarrassment. The thought of a period flashed through my mind, as I was at the right age. Also, in the months leading up, my mother would have no qualms about announcing to her female friends or my (female) family members that I "must be about to start getting my period" because of whatever pubescent freak-outs or attitude indiosyncracies I was having that could be blamed on hormonal changes.

So upon the discovery on my underwear (in a restaurant), I said something to my mom. She right away assumed that yes, I did in fact get my period. She took me into the bathroom and got me squared away. Since I was in the throes of puberty and feeling shy and embarrassed, I asked her to please not tell Dad what happened. Of course in hindsight, I would not fault her for telling him, even would expect her to now--but this kind of thing has to be handled with a certain sensitivity. Translation: I wanted to pretend like nothing was out of the ordinary, at least in front of my dad, which I don't think is so much for a 12-year old girl to ask when her body is bitch-slapping her in a way it never had before.

And yet, as soon as my mother and I leave the bathroom and return to my dad, he asked, "Is everything alright?" or something like that. What does my mother do? Puts her arm around me and says, "We became a woman today."

Are you fucking kidding me? She could not have been more out of touch with me than she was at that moment. I know (myself included) adults sometimes forget how we felt during our adolescence, but I had always thought I could count on my mother to be understanding.

And she (as well as my dad, as evidenced by the postcard) wonders why I was such a pain in the ass during my pre-teen years. (Oh, right, it's because, as she'd said repeatedly, "I was ready to get my period." Way to perpetuate a negative stereotype about women, Mom.)