It was almost two years ago now that my period began arriving a mere 10 days after the previous one ended. My cycles had been on the short side since the birth of my second child, and three weeks was annoying but within the realm of tolerable. But 14 day cycles? Half of average? No.

Then my periods got worse. Intrusively worse. I became exhausted and achey. I couldn’t hide my cramps. I bled through a menstrual cup and period underwear within an hour or two on a regular basis. And this was every 10 days. When my doctor finally discovered a growing fibroid already taking up half of my uterus, it suddenly made sense, but medication only made the issue worse. And due to my (and I quote) “bulky uterus,” I was not a good candidate for any kind of common procedure like ablation or D&C.

Soon I thought about my mom, who was about my age when she began getting periods so heavy, frequent, and intense that she’d have to go to the hospital. Everything her doctors offered to fix the problem — megadoses of birth control pills, a D&C, an ablation, an IUD — fell short of true relief. I thought of my grandmother whose 10-year-long menopause remains the stuff of family legend. Both of them had also started menstruating at 11. All the women in our family do. Just like all of us have a bloody awful time in our 40s.

And then I thought about what they’d both said to me at some point, “If I could go back, rather than go through all that, I wish I’d just gotten a hysterectomy when the problems started.”

There are a lot of people who feel incredibly complicated about this surgery, even with a troublesome uterus wreaking havoc. It’s an organ often associated with femininity and motherhood. For a lot of people my age having a hysterectomy, the surgery is the final chapter in a painful infertility journey. I want to acknowledge that harsh and complicated reality before telling you that I am unequivocally thrilled. My supra-cervical, partial hysterectomy is scheduled for December. It’s on our family Skylight calendar as “Jamie’s Uterus Is Getting The Booterus.”

“I’m grateful for her service,” I’ve said of said uterus at the dinner table. “She was home to two great kids. But that house is abandoned now and it’s very clear it’s haunted.”

I thought about what they’d seen of that journey second-hand, through my experience. Groaning on the couch. Bleeding, embarrassingly, everywhere. Celebrating the end of it all.

Yes, these are the conversations my family has at the dinner table and it’s intentional. My husband and I have always been adamant that any topic can be explained to a child on some level, paving the way for more detailed, nuanced conversations down the road. Now that our kids are 13 and 10, we are well and truly down the road on a lot of topics. But recently, my children’s ages have given me pause. Well, one of their ages.

My daughter (they/she) is 10. If the past is prologue — and, as we’ve established, it has been in my family — then it’s not too much longer before they start getting their period, too. In all the hullabaloo of yeeting my ute, I failed to recognize that my daughter was on the brink of becoming better acquainted with theirs.

And then I thought about what they’d seen of that journey second-hand through my experience. Groaning on the couch. Bleeding, embarrassingly, everywhere. Celebrating the end of it all. I thought about how sweet they always are when my periods get really bad and they offer me tea and hugs and sympathy. And then I thought back to my first period, when I felt that — maybe silly, maybe not— connection I felt to generations of those who’d gone through this experience and wondered was I ruining this for them?

I got my first period on the day of my school’s 5th grade graduation party. (It was the kind of symbolic timing that an editor might declare to be “a little on the nose.”) I remembered trudging to the nurse’s office for a pad with toilet paper wadded up into my underwear and being annoyed, but also I remembered smiling. I didn’t know any other girls who’d gotten their period yet, and felt a blush of pride that, at 11, I might just be The First. I thought I’d felt myself growing up, but here was proof.

The novelty would wear thin fast, of course, but that first period felt special. I felt special. I’d joined the ancient and storied coven of menstruators! There was something meaningful in that to me — it felt ancient and magic and not just because fifth grade was the start of my Wicca phase.

Because even if it’s short-lived, it’s foundational. And even if, ultimately, in 30 years, they become at least the fourth generation in our family to have a haunted uterus, there’s still that initial excitement that I would never want to take away. I didn’t quite know how to tell them, “This isn’t all of it.” Or, “It’s annoying, but also sort of powerful.” Or, “Please don’t let this scare you,” or, “Even if it does scare you I’m going to be here with you through all of it.” Was seeing my experience setting them up for a negative attitude toward developing bodies? Would that affect how they viewed not just them periods but ideas about women and femininity, particularly as a non-binary kiddo who still nevertheless relishes all things girly?

And so I did what I often do when I don’t know what to say; I just started talking.

“Hey! I hope I’m not scaring you!” It came out way more chipper than I’d meant, which didn’t faze but nevertheless confused my kid.

“… what?”

“Like… with my horrible periods.”

“What do you mean?”

What did I mean? “Well, I don’t want you to worry about your periods. One day. When you get them. Because, like, they’re not always fun but they’re not usually… THIS.”

The quizzical look lingered for a moment longer before they brightened.

“Oh! Actually I’m pretty excited about it, actually.”

Genetics are weird and don’t always work the way you expect them to. Maybe my kid will get their period at 11 and maybe they won’t. Maybe their middle-aged menstruation experience will be nightmarish, maybe it won’t, or maybe medical science will come up with better solutions by then. But at least for now, in the lead up, they have that little spark of excitement for what comes next for them, just like I did at 10. And as excited as I am for my own next step, it’s also pretty exciting to know that even if my daughter and I aren’t in the same stage at the same time, in some larger, corny, fifth-grade-Wicca-phase way, we’re still in this together.