Finding comfort at the end of a sentence

Growing up, my family went on a vacation every year. My parents hated the beach, Disney World was too immature for them and a “European trip would be wasted on children.” Needless to say, for three kids that left our options somewhere between the National Mustard Museum in Wisconsin (yes, it’s real) and somewhere in Yemen. My father was in the insurance business and every year he went away to a convention and dragged us along with him. I still think Yemen might have been the better choice. When I was 12 years old, the convention of the year was in San Diego. Me, Mom, Dad and my two brothers on a plane for over four hours with no in-flight movie (“that’s a waste of good money”), no smartphones and no iPads. How we survived the ’80s I have no idea.

Entertainment consisted of sitting still, Mad Libs or staring out the window praying it would open. I got a little adventurous and stealthily snuck off to ransack the tiny bathroom in the back of the plane. I know that doesn’t sound like a lot of fun, but after an hour of Mad Libs you’d poke your own eyes out just for a change of scenery. If you’re a woman reading this, you know what I found. That’s right, ladies…the stash of free sanitary napkins. My Walkman was running out of batteries and I could only listen to so much Cyndi Lauper anyway, so naturally I thought it would be fun to spend the next few hours of the flight wearing a big-ass pad. I didn’t even have my period yet, but all my friends did and I was dying to feel “grown up,” because nothing screams “womanhood” quite like riding the front half of a diaper cowgirl style.

That lasted about a half hour.

Yup, that’s all it took for me to run back to the bathroom (my mom must’ve thought I had diarrhea) and rip that thing out of my underwear. I actually considered peeing with it on just to see what happened, but thankfully I chickened out. Otherwise I might’ve ended up years later sitting in a bar on my fourth glass of wine, refusing to get up because I was convinced nobody could tell my pad had expanded to seven times its normal size.

Fast forward thirty-something years and now it’s my daughter telling me she can’t wait to get her period. As I’m about to roll my eyes, I think back to that flight and remember how clueless I was too. “The only periods you should be worrying about right now are the ones at the ends of your sentences. Now go finish your homework.” Parenting…nailed it.

Time went on and before we knew it, Aunt Flo came knocking on my little girl’s door. She was so excited she was practically beaming. We immediately went to the pharmacy, made our purchase and came straight home. I think you know where this is going…nine minutes. She lasted nine minutes. “Nope. I’m not wearing this.” I explained that my house wasn’t going to look like a crime scene and she had to wear something. She was way too young for tampons (organic only…do you know how much chemical shit they spray on those before you’re supposed to shove one up your hoo-ha? That’s a whole other post), she couldn’t use a menstrual cup like me, and as far as I knew there weren’t any other options.

Turns out I was wrong.

Rather than continue a losing battle with my hormone-raging vampire snack, I asked my friend Google to help me keep the peace and keep the laundry to a minimum. After a couple of very unfortunate internet searches (I can’t wait to see what starts showing up in my newsfeed), I found a potential answer…period underwear. Yup, don’t beat yourself up if you’ve never heard of it either. At the time, only two of my friends had, and neither one knew if they actually worked. I figured I had nothing to lose and everything to gain by giving them a try. In the age of cell phones, Wi-Fi and the Swiffer, surely my daughter didn’t have to suffer through the equivalent of a small travel pillow stuffed into her underwear once a month.

When I hear “period underwear,” I picture giant tan granny panties with stretched-out elastic and a couple of unfortunate Rorschach stains. They’re not sexy, nobody wants to talk about them and they’re definitely not fun. They’re the Nicolas Cage of underwear.

Who knew period underwear had become a huge industry? There are a bunch of different brands out there, but after a lot of research I decided to try Thinx. I heard the founder, Miki Agrawal, on a podcast and thought she was a fucking badass. I love supporting companies that give back, promote ethical and sustainable manufacturing and make it easy to find exactly what you need. I’m not going to lie, I was skeptical, but much like watching Nicolas Cage in a dramatic role…I felt nothing.

Yup. Nothing.

They’re comfortable, super cute and incredibly easy to wash. I rinse them in the sink, throw them in the washing machine and let them air dry after a few minutes in the dryer. They come out perfect every time. Thankfully those giant pads are a thing of the past in our house, and my daughter will never have to experience what felt like half a roll of damp toilet paper stuffed into her underwear like I did. Isn’t that every mom’s dream? For her daughter to have it just a little easier than she did.

Mission accomplished.

As a side note, you know how eco-friendly I am, so I’m hanging on to that last box of giant pads for the next time my friend Allison comes over with a bottle…or three…of wine. I think it’s incredibly rude to excuse yourself in the middle of a great story just to run to the bathroom.