are you there, dog? It's me, kerensa

Those of us who have a loved one who suffers from depression, we know the color gray. We know how easily a day can go from technicolor to gray in a single phone call, a downcast look, a sigh. We know that the only other helplessness that is even slightly akin to this, is that which we feel when our children are sick. We think that if we could only make the right meal, say the right thing, plan the right event. We think if we could only smile that much wider, it would become infectious, and all would be all right. We tell ourselves that this too shall pass, but it passes like molasses, and we wait. Brave faces galore in public, nothing can be as it seems. How is your sister, your husband, your uncle, your friend they ask innocently. And you feel your face crack into a thousand pieces as you smile brightly and declare them to be fine. You hear the click of the wheels on the grocery cart as you walk away, and the only way you know how to keep walking without falling, is to align your step

We take it for granted. At some point, between the ages of 10 and 15, we get our first periods, and for those of who avidly read Judy Blume, we begin counting down to that day from an early age. When it arrives, we quickly come to the conclusion that the nickname "the curse" was aptly given, and begin to wonder disdainfully if Margaret (of the Are You There God fame) was a little out of her mind for her eager anticipation. Our mothers either alert the media with fanfare about their babies becoming women, or they are like my mother, who simply said "there's some stuff in the cabinet." I prefer Claire Huxtable's approach, taking Rudy for a carriage ride in the city, allowing her to play hooky, and if I were only a little more liberal, would appreciate the symbolism of the sip of red wine discussed in How to Make an American Quilt. As we get older, we learn to swim while we have it, how to dodge messy situations, and how to buy tampons without furiously blushin