My wife informed me of some disturbing news this morning before I left for work. Apparently, in four more years, my 7-year old will start her monthly “celebration of womanhood”. Her cycle. Her visit from Aunt Flow. Arts and Crafts Week at Panty Camp. Her period. My God, that’s so young. My God, that’s so soon!!! She’ll still be in frickin’ elementary school at that age, drinking out of Silly Straws, and wearing Barbie jammies and shit. That’s insane.

I guess I was thinking that stuff started in high school, came when they were issued their drivers license, or otherwise began at an age when you could reasonably consider the girl kind of womanly. At 11, she’s barely able to spell menstruation, much less live it. Are we going to pack a tampon in her lunchbox? They make Hillary Duff Tampax? How does all that work??? Do I even have to mention the fact that there will be two female cycles running in the house? And if I remember correctly, don’t the separate cycles eventually sync up into one raging gigantic out-of-control monster cycle? That’ll be a fun time. The dog and I will just hole up in the garage that week.

I guess I just wasn’t ready to hear that kind of thing. I like to think of her as a little girl who still needs help with simple things like making a peanut butter sandwich or tying a shoe. I can’t fathom the idea of her growing up and blossoming in to a woman. Why can’t she stay little like her baby sister? Oh crap. There is another.

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