I recently read Fourteen, Stephen Zanichowsky’s memoir about growing up among fourteen siblings in an extremely dysfunctional environment.
The distance that existed between Stephen’s parents and their children is illustrated by, among other things, the fact that his mother did not tell any of his sisters about menstruation.
“‘I started my period around ten,’ (younger sister) Liz says. ‘I didn’t tell a soul.’”
It is not surprising that she did not tell a soul. It is not surprising that, armed with neither the necessary information nor the pads her older sisters used but were too ashamed to tell her about, she had to at first resort to MacGyver-style methods (namely, Kleenex).
No, what astonishes me is the fact that she does not remember exactly how old she was at the time. Now things are not nearly as dramatic for us guys, but I certainly remember how old I was when comparable milestones occurred. It mystifies me that someone would not remember her age at the time such a crucial event took place.