Dear Grandpa Otto,

I want to thank you for reacting as awkwardly as you did to my first period. You would never believe what a wonderful turn my life has taken because of it. I know you remember the moment that we locked bug eyes (me on my water skis and you in the back of the boat) when we noticed the stain on my bikini bottom. I’m sure you remembering our silent drive to the pharmacy. You stayed in the car because you were too embarrassed to guide me to the right aisle. Later, while I was peeing, you cracked open the door, dangling the cordless phone as if it were infected. “You should call a woman,” you whispered. I stayed in the bathroom for an hour while you paced outside. I was too ashamed to come out. I imagined you shaking your head, confused and wondering what in the world a widowed old man could offer to a hormonal teenager like me. The rest of the week waterskiing with you was hell.


What you don’t know, and what I wish I could tell you, was the surprising effect of your silence. It made me want to ensure that no other girl would feel as alone as I did. It made me ask the other women in our family for their first period stories. I don’t think I had ever seen the older women in our family giggle before (Aunt Nina has gold teeth!). I learned that my best friend got her period on the day of her bat mitzvah. I got into Gloria Steinem, Eve Ensler, I read MS magazine. While my friends played video games and illegally downloaded music (I did some of that, too), I collected period stories. For five years! This February, they all got published into a book. My high school classmates will remember me as that period chick, writers will ask me questions about publishing, potential employers and dates will google me and stumble upon a video of me gesticulating how to insert a tampon. I will go on the radio and answer mothers’ concerns about how much of a celebration is too much, teenage girls’ questions on why they are sleepy when they get their period, and attempt to help fathers struggling with how to breach the subject with their daughters. You’ve changed my life in the weirdest and most wonderful way and you’ll never know, Otto. I feel like I’ve done something already to define myself and make the world a tiny bit better (or at least a little less awkward). I know that you would be blushing right now, wherever you are, if you knew how often and how proudly I tell our story.

Love and miss you,

Rachel, age 19 

PS: Looking forward to embarrassing my own grandchildren (and hoping that it will have similarly positive results).

Written by Rachel Kauder Nalebuff, author of My Little Red Book