Women ovulate. Sometimes we do it while walking down the street, during meetings, talking on the phone and even while we sleep. Oh hi mom! I’m good. You? Oh nothing much, just sitting here spontaneously popping out an egg and thinking fondly of you! In fact some of us are probably doing it rightthisverysecond and you wouldn’t even know it! Heck, we might not even know it! Just part of the magic of having lady bits. But some of us know exactly when the egglet is expelled because we do it while doubled over in pain. And up until this month I could only sympathize with that group of ladies.
I’ve always had wicked PMS – cramps, bloating, zits and, my favorite, the everybody-hates-me’s – but my actual eggsplosion has always occurred unnoticed. Occasionally I’d have some jealousy when my friends complained of having mittelschmerz but that was mostly just because they got to use “mittelschmerz” in a sentence. (Seriously, say it! Say it again! SO FUN.) Being able to detect one’s own egg-letting seemed like a cool party trick but I can already pick my nose with my tongue so I was covered on that front.
Being too cheap to pay bus fare for four kiddos, every day I have to camp out at the bottom of the grand staircase of their school and try to collect them as they scamper down in the crush of students. It’s like playing Plinko crossed with Whack-a-Mole. But this particular day it was all that plus Operation, complete with weird buzzing alarms because apparently a student had gotten a case of the vapors and swooned at the top of the staircase. Elementary school kids are hyper anyhow at the end of the day so this only ignited the powder keg as I tried to make sense of all the kids yelling.
“He can’t breathe!”
“He’s having an asthma attack!
“He’s having a heart attack!”
I knew it was legit when the sweet 3rd grade teacher snowplowed up the stairs literally chucking kids out of her way. Soon there was a crowd and once I was reassured that the school nurse was there and an ambulance had been called – the general consensus was the poor kid was having a really bad asthma attack – I decided the best way I could help would just be to herd kids out the doors and give the boy some room. (Seriously I swear the universe is telling me I need to become an EMT.) As I pushed kids towards their buses one little boy ran up to his mom and, caught up in the zeitgeist of emergency, yelled “MOM! A BOY JUST DIED!!!”
Repeat after me: I will not take medical advice from celebrities whose claim to fame is a Playboy spread. I’m not saying Jenny McCarthy isn’t funny, talented and gorgeous but the only medical tips I’m taking from her here on out are those regarding my bikini line. (Side note: as a child, I always thought “bikini line” meant hair on your belly, along the waistband of the bikini. It horrified me that puberty was apparently going to give me a furry tummy. When it didn’t I felt all superior to those poor women who had to wax their bellybutton every week just to wear short shorts. It took years and a very blunt woman with a graphic postcard in Spain before I learned the truth.)