Parents, Palm Sunday, and a Period

It was the weekend before Easter in 2005. Chris and I had been dating for a couple of months and had already talked about getting married. We were in the beginning stages of buying the house I had been renting. We were moving fast and were very happy.

Now it was time for me to meet his super Catholic parents. By super Catholic, I don’t mean they wore capes. I mean that they were very very very involved in their church. As Chris says, “They’re Father Dick and Sister Dorothy who accidentally got married and had five kids.”

And I was a divorced single mom, shacking up with their youngest son. I just knew they were going to think I was total trash. So, I was a wee bit nervous to be spending the weekend at their house, in separate a separate bedroom from my love, of course, because we were not married yet.

Since it was a weekend, and the weekend before Easter, which I later learned involved Palm Sunday, we went to church. So, let me pause and offer some TMI here. I was 33 and two years into crime scene level perimenopausal periods that were at their worst on day three of my cycle. Guess what day Palm Sunday fell on?

Though I was raised mostly without religion and tended to believe more in the Universal Kittens than Jesus, Mary, and stepdaddy Joseph, I had actually been to Catholic church a time or two. I knew there would be crackers I couldn’t eat and some aerobic activity: stand, sit, kneel, etc. I had never been to Catholic church on Palm Sunday. If you are unaware of what this means, let me explain. Palm Sunday is the longest service of the year, to my knowledge. It lasts at least three days. I’m only exaggerating slightly. The aerobic exercises are taken up a notch, and the standing lasts FOREVER.

My friends who have periods know where this is going. Soon, the rest of you will, too, but I must pause and explain that Chris’s parents preferred to eat breakfast after church. So, I had not eaten, which means I had not been able to take Motrin (that stuff eats my stomach but really helps with cramps). So, I was already hungry and crampy. Cue the standing.

Every time I stood, I felt my uterus trying to get rid of its entire lining in one minute. After a few rounds of sit, kneel, stand for five years, I started to feel weak, and I broke into a cold sweat. Nausea had decided to come out to play.

I carefully excused myself while everyone was standing and went to the bathroom. I stayed in there a long time and put cold water on the back of my neck. I changed diapers and tried to pull myself together. When I exited the bathroom, Chris was standing there.

“Please tell your parents I have my period!” I said to him, while hugging him. “I don’t want them to think I’m pregnant.”

He laughed. 

“Seriously! They will hate me!”

Somehow, I went back into church and got through the rest of the service. We went to breakfast afterwards, and I was able to chug down some Motrin with my coffee and French Toast. Chris had managed to share my TMI with them when I wasn’t around. So, they knew what was up with me.

When we got back to the house, Chris ran for the hall bathroom. He probably had too much coffee and bacon. While he was sitting in the bathroom, which did NOT HAVE A FART FAN, his mom decided to show me all of her stained glass work in the hallway right outside of the bathroom door.

We stopped in front of a framed stained glass crane about six feet from the bathroom door, and she grabbed my arm and looked at me with this really stern look. I thought, Oh shit. Here it comes. She’s going to tell me to leave her son alone, that I’m not good enough for him, etc. Nope.

“You make my son  very happy,” she said, looking right into my eyes. 

“I try,” I said.

“Welcome to the family,” she said. My eyes watered a bit as I thanked her. 

Then the toilet flushed. The water ran in the sink as Chris washed his hands before walking out of the bathroom and pretending he had not heard every word.

We enjoyed the rest of the day sitting on the patio with his parents, sharing stories and getting to know each other. Six months later, Chris and I were married, and I was not pregnant then either.

After Chris’s mom, Dorothy died in 2013.  His father gave me the stained glass crane.  I still have it. I think about that first visit whenever I look at it and, of course, on every Palm Sunday.