We started a day late. A watched pot never boils and all that. I knew it was coming though because I got into a fight with my shoes the other day, and then yesterday I was about to end a man on the train for slurping his coffee and tapping my seat with the toe of his sneaker every few seconds. Barely perceptible on a moving train, but still — perceptible. I also cried for a solid 15-20 minutes per day since Sunday about the World Cup ending and all of my husbands returning to their respective nations.

My first period ever arrived much more quietly.

I was 16. The average age a girl starts her period in the US is 12 and it’s trending down, especially for minorities and low-income individuals. Around 14 my mom thought something was wrong with me and took me to our pediatrician, a fiercely made-up but very warm Pakistani auntie we used to see at parties all the time, but I was still terrified of her. She wore glittery blue eyeshadow and I’m pretty sure a wig, and called us jaanu. Her husband, once an accomplished orthopedic surgeon, made the unfortunate error of operating on a patient’s right knee instead of the left and had to leave his practice. Rumor has it he started drinking heavily and became a day-trader. I ran into them recently at the neighborhood Indian store and they were delighted to see me. A potbelly (possibly) confirmed the drinking and yes, yes she wears a wig (now).

Yvonne Auntie didn’t even examine me that day. I had no idea why I was even in her office. We never came to the doctor unless when we were dying. After routine temperature taking and tongue depressing, my mom brought up the period thing.

The tone of my Mom’s voice made it clear that she’d been concerned about me and my lack of period for some time. In her defense I was always the kid to be concerned about medically. I had a long history of not eating properly, contracting real and imaginary diseases suddenly and very violently, especially on the first day of school, vomiting easily and often without warning, and my stomach hurting for no apparent reason at least a couple of times a week, usually at night. Which meant my mom would bunk up with me and rub my tummy until we both fell asleep in my tiny bed in the room I shared with my sister that had crinkly orange carpet and an open closet full of stuffed animals that included an E.T. doll and they all stared at me while I slept. Except for E.T. He wanted to kill me.

When did you get your period?

My mom kind of just looked around for a second as if there was another mother in the room and the doctor was talking to her. Then she answered meekly in her post-colonial accent she pulled out in airports and anywhere semi-official — “I was 16.” The doctor auntie waved her hand in my mom’s face and said her version of, “Pssshhh, girl, why are you here?” and then they talked about how different life was for girls in India and Pakistan. How she didn’t know anything about periods until the day hers came. How for the longest time she thought hugging was how women became pregnant. They gossiped for a while and we were off. That was it. I could have very well stayed home.

We didn’t talk about it again until the day it happened, and even then not much at all. Of course I knew some things from the videotapes, my older sister, and friends as school, and I think my mother thought this was enough. After all, she knew even less. Is a little bit more better enough? I also avoided learning about periods because I didn’t want to tempt fate. I didn’t want a period and secretly hoped there was something wrong with me.

I vividly remember my first two encounters with periods. The first time, I was around the age of five. My mom, sister, and I were at Mervyn’s and I really had to pee. (I always really had to pee.) My sister walked us to the bathroom and into the same stall together, which we did for a long time until she grew out of it, probably around the time she got her period. I would have been happy doing that for a lot longer. Who doesn’t want a pee buddy? Maybe it’s a younger kid thing. Everyone’s seen our butts. If my sister demanded to see my butt right now, I’d drop my pants right this instant and she could poke it all she wanted. Anyway, we walked into the stall and instantly started screaming because there was bright blood in the bowl and drops of it on the toilet seat. It was the first time either of us had seen so much blood in real life and I’ll never forget that Rorschach. My sister grabbed my little hand and we flew out of the bathroom, both in tears, in search of my mom. I can’t remember what she said to us, but she managed to calm us down with some sticks of Juicy Fruit, and we played hide and seek in the clothing racks until she was ready to check out.

The second time was a bit more intimate. Being the little brat I was, I often wandered into my parents’ room at night and crawled into bed with my mom. She would swaddle me in the flaps of her nightgown and lull me back to sleep. Eventually I’d wake up next to my dad and we’d be snoring together — his real, mine fake. One such morning, my dad and I woke up and saw a bright red spot on the bedsheet, no bigger than a pencil eraser. He turned me around like a monkey and examined me. He obviously told my mom because she checked me more thoroughly later on in the bathroom and took a good look at the toilet paper, which she had me hand to her after wiping. Then we washed our hands, she gave me a giant hug, and life went on.

When did I get my period?

It was a perfect summer morning and my sister and I were home from school. I went to the bathroom and my heart stopped. There it was, this small brownish red mess. I just sat there and stared at it for a while. Eventually I touched it, squeezing the gusset of my cotton panty between my thumb and forefinger to get a sense for it. I even smelled it, which I learned years later many women do throughout their cycle. It’s instinctual and good for noticing deviations from your baseline. I sat there frozen for quite a while. I didn’t cry or anything. It just felt weighty, like, “Oh. Here we go.”

I cleaned myself up and called for my mom. I could hear her in the kitchen making the same sounds she made every morning, taking the tea pot on and off the stove, emptying the dishwasher, refilling the spoon drawer. She eventually came up and I showed her. She got teary-eyed and hugged me again. I could feel her shaking a little. This time something was there and it was mine. She went back downstairs, called my dad from the kitchen phone, and yelled for me to pickup. I did, and my dad asked me, “Are you feeling ok?” I replied, “Yes.” And then I didn’t get my period again for another six months.

Thanks for reading! Please hit reply and send in questions if you feel like it. I have several questions for myself already. Like, “Hmm, how did you feel about that?” Which tracks, since I've never reflected on this in a structured way. I realize how open-ended this is. That’s deliberate. These are not essays I’m trying to tie up neatly. My goal is to revisit each piece later and respond to the prompts it suggests. If you want to aid in that, go for it.