One of my sisters began menopause in her mid twenties. It’s lasted for forty more years, yet I absolutely adore her, especially without moments of civil rage. In our family, regarding my sisters, civil rage can be manifested by someone not making a deviled egg properly on Easter. Thank goodness it only shows up once a year, much like Jesus.
On a two week road trip with her and many other siblings, at the age of eight, I wrote a hand written letter to someone else in our family proclaiming my sister was a being her usual “bich” self. It’s so nice and special I couldn’t properly spell the name “bitch”. I must have had great parents. The word was introduced to me by one of my other sisters and Elton John.
Being eight years old, I really didn’t understand infants properly. I didn’t even understand adults. They all simply pooped and pissed their parents, uncles and aunts off.
My sisters’s children were always fussy, hungry or, perhaps, menopausal themselves during road trips.
At that age, I didn’t officially get it. I still don’t.
The “bich” isn’t back, but she still lives.