(copied as the guest blog entry from Maybe If You Just Relax)

So.

This is awkward.  I don’t even know where to begin.  Normally, in my own world of internets best known as The Heir to Blair, I begin with a tale, or a picture, or even a long drawn out “Y’ALL WILL NOT BELIEVE THIS SHIT S-DASH-DASH-DASH.”   But since I’m a guest of Jen’s, I figure it best that I a) introduce myself & b) not drop profanity in the first paragraph.  oh, & use a coaster for my sweet tea.

& since it is flu season & I don’t shake hands for fear of smallporks, I shall introduce myself simply as “Blair.”  As previously stated, I normally run rampant in my own little world of cupcakes, baby puke, & discussions about my sex life, but a week ago, I opened an email from Jen.  ”Would you be interested in guest blogging?” it read.  ”DOES A FAT BABY FART?” I responded.  (the answer is yes. just ask my kid)  When I questioned her on topics, she gave me free reign.

BIG MISTAKE, JEN.

So I emailed her back.  Because I had this topic I was itching to tap out, but I figured I should ask her permission before regaling her readers with tales of my bleeding vagina.  Manners matter, people!  & with her permission & the most incredibly dull, drawn-out introduction, I begin my guest blog:

Y’ALL WILL NOT BELIEVE THIS SHIT.

Disclaimer:  I typically shy from writing about family members.  Or friends.  Or relationships.  & definitely work.  I am of the opinion that no good can come from blogging about those topics, but this is WAY TOO GOOD to be kept a secret.  & I have my husband’s permission.

Back in January 2009, I peed on a stick.  & this appeared:

I’M PREGNANT!  A BABY IN MY UTE!  It’s awesome!  I won’t have a period for almost an entire year!!   I saw this as a blissful opportunity to make the world a better place.  To be the attention-whore I always wanted to be as people stared at my belly, showered me with gifts, & rained compliments upon my glowing, happily knocked-up self.  (by the way, mission totally accomplished)

My mother-in-law saw my pregnancy as an opportunity to boost Kotex’s market power. (mission also accomplished)

The first time she brought me a pack of pads back in March 2009, I was a wee bit dumbfounded, a little embarrassed, but silently accepted them.  Maybe she found them in the back of her closet & is going through “the change?”  Since I am not one to question the fruitfulness of another’s womb, I stuffed them in the back of our own bathroom shelf in case of emergencies.  Until her next visit, when she brought 5 packs of pads.  & the next, when she brought 3 more economy packs, plus 2 packs of panty liners.  ”These are for after you have the baby,” she finally warbled in explanation.  Listen, lady – there is no need to hold stock in Kotex.   MY VAG IS NOT GOING TO BLEED PROFUSELY FOR AN ENTIRE YEAR.  ”Oh, I know,” she chirped.  ”But like I told your stepfather-in-law, you’ll get your period again!”  OH MY GOD.  You’re discussing my monthly cycle with a man my husband doesn’t even share DNA with?!  Stab me in the eye with a dull spoon.  NOW.

So I contemplated saying something to her after we hit 500 pads, ran out of room in the guest bathroom, & I started piling maxi pads on Nate’s work bench in the garage.  It’s not that I didn’t appreciate the generosity.  Or gesture.  But honestly, there are certain boundaries that should not be crossed by mother-in-laws.

I happen to lump my bleeding vagina into that category, along with discussing how I lost my virginity & the cost of our mortgage payment.

But I just couldn’t.  I was weak!  I was intimidated!  Despite over-sharing my procreation methods on the interwebs, I was a prude!  & in all honesty, watching her stagger into my casa with bags of Kotex was sending me into fits of giggles with every visit.  I could not explain to this woman that with the exception of healing from the D&E after the miscarriage, I never used pads.  That the moment I discovered that first wee bit of womanhood at the tender age of 12, I demanded that The Momma teach me to use tampons.  I could not stare my mother-in-law in the face & tell her that what emerges from my vagina past Harrison was none of her business.  & so I stayed silent, watching with hilarity as the pad count tick up over 700…800…850…

(thankfully, Walmart pretty much accepts any return, other than children & dead pet hamsters.  I have spent many, many hours waiting in line for a pimple-decked 15-year-old sophomore to issue me a gift card in return for said feminine products.)

Last weekend, she sent the total over 1,000.  & when she leaned over my son in a conspiratorial manner & whispered, “These are for Mommy” while winking & patting the pack of Kotex, Nate stood up.  The insanity had. to. stop.  & doing what I could not do with quiet male dignity, explained that he has never, ever seen me purchase maxi pads.  While I, ever mature & helpful, muffled my laughter into my sweater sleeve.

That, my friends, is the definition of a good man.  One that can stand up for your vagina to his own mother.  I married a good man.

& to date, I have returned 1,028 maxi-pads to Walmart.

Filed under: I share DNA with these folks, Life in General