The Belt

Yesterday I told of my daughter’s special gift of my leftover “incidentals.”  Well, at least they had a sticky strip to make her life easier.  Would you like to hear about MY hand-me-down?

Hysterectomies run in my family.  A tradition that runs 4 generations deep on my maternal side.  Anyway, when my mom lost her “womanhood”, she left me a nice surprise but I wouldn’t find out about it until it was too late.  Believe me, if I had known it would have accidentally died in a fire.

Mother Nature showed up when I was 14, sitting in my room, on the floor, doing a puzzle.  My mother was at work.  My father was home.  Oh God.

I called my mom in total panic mode.  She instructed me to go to the hall closet.  In the said closet on the top shelf is where it was, cobwebs and all.  What I pulled down completely had me puzzled.

Unknown

What is it?  A headband? A dog collar?  I could only wish.  For those of you who don’t know, it’s called a Sanitary Belt.  Honestly, I think it was a hand me down from HER mother.  And the pad I had to use?  It looked like it was made for a menstrating elephant.  Never mind an 80 pound teenage girl child.  Once I figured it out and got it on, it flopped about until dad drove me to the nearest pharmacy where he made ME go in and get some supplies.

Well, 30 years and many therapy sessions later, I’m over it.  And whatever became of the belt?  It’s hanging in the Smithsonian.  Right next to the torture rack.

Leader of the…Pack?

My husband and I decided long before we married that probably one child would be enough for us. We were completely fine with it but it seems no one else was.

Them: So, when are you going to have another child?

Me: Um, never…

Them: Oh my, I’m sorry.

Me: No, really, it’s okay.

Them: So what is it? His sperm? Your eggs? You know, my husband’s sperm are slow swimmers. Just stand on your head, it’ll turn those bastards into a pack of little Mark Spitzes.

Me: Well, no, there’ no problem there. We just don’t want to have any more.

Them: (GASP) WHAT??? Oh.my.god. That is totally not a real family. No, two is a family, but one? One is a pet.

Okay dude, like really? If I had a dime for every time I got that reaction or something close to it, I’d have to change my name to Ivana Trump. All I know is there are a lot of people walking around with more balls than Yankee Stadium.

So, if we are not a family, then what are we?  A pack of dogs?  A pet sitting service?  Well, she has always been good at fetching my slippers.  I guess we should have changed her name to Fido.