I Hand Wash My Wife's Period Pads

The least glamorous thing I do might be the most romantic.

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Genesis

It began with the birth of our first born so many years ago. I was nervous about changing diapers, but knew I’d dive right in. I even semi-willingly agreed to the idea of using reusable cloth diapers. Had the choice been mine alone, it would have been Pamper’s all day.

Washing them turned out to be an early rehearsal for where I find myself today. Thinking about it now makes me barf in my mouth, but I loved it at the time. My wife carried the little buggers around for nine months, felt sick most of the time, and pushed them out so quickly there was no time for painkillers. All I’d had to do was gain some sympathy weight.

So plunging my hand into the Diaper Genie and getting baby shit underneath my fingernails a few times a week was the least I could do. Once I mastered the art of mouth breathing, it wasn’t nearly as bad as I’d imagined.

Before long, they were out of diapers. Even though it was never a conscious thought, I assumed the days of being involved with the excreta of others were behind me.

The Evolution of Pad

My wife is a beautifully complex, highly intelligent, and semi-tortured creative who feels as much of a connection with Mother Nature as I do with my kettlebells. She talks to her plants, rejoices in the smells and sounds of her garden, and believes recycling gets recycled rather than ending up as landfill in China. She’s German, so sweaters from grade nine still hang loyally in her closet, ready to be passed down to the next four generations.

In other words, we couldn’t possibly be more different.

She, like her garden, is ever evolving. It’s one of the things I love most about her. She’s committed to her own growth, and to living in alignment with her values. That means making conscious choices about what she invites into her life and what she lets go. Thankfully, she’s kept me around. So far.

It’s natural then, as the years have passed, her preferences in the products she uses have changed along with her. This includes feminine hygiene products. The convenience-oriented, earth-destroying disposable pads of her younger years no longer have a place in her menstrual experience.

They’ve been replaced with natural, reusable period pads. I remember my initial shock and mild revulsion when I found out these actually existed and realized she wasn’t kidding about using them.

Years ago, I walked into the bathroom and saw one soaking in water. Looking back, I can almost hear it crying out to me to wash it. My last conscious thought was, “I’d washed diapers. Could this really be any worse?” Before I knew it, the world faded away, the bar of soap become an extension of my body and I entered a flow state (pun intended). Chop wood, carry water, wash pad.

A few minutes later, I stepped back, admired my handiwork, warmed by the satisfaction of a job well done. That little manta ray didn’t look like a trauma patient any more. I’d restored it. It was a dopamine hit and as a stimulus-addicted ADHD train wreck, I was hooked. I marched over to my wife, probably bumped into a few corners on the way, and claimed ownership of all future pad washing. She didn’t try to talk me out of it.

Years later, and I’m still on the job, patiently waiting for the four to five days of twenty-eight where my services are required. Peri-menopause is messing with a schedule that used to be as predictable as the tides. But it’s also reminding me that my time as the Pad Washer-in-Chief is limited so I’d better appreciate it while it lasts.

Not everyone shares my enthusiasm for this task. Nothing turns the stomachs of my guy friends faster than hearing me talk about it. None of them has taken me up on my suggestion to try it themselves. Wimps.

I often reflect on why I love doing it so much, and have landed on three main reasons.

Intimacy

Intimacy isn't just what happens in the dark. It's also what happens at the sink on a days one to five. It’s playing a more active part in something so central to her womanhood. It’s knowing a little more about parts of her life and body that most husbands never think to pay attention to.

I can pick up one of those pads and read it the way a blood spatter analyst reads a crime scene. “We’ve got a ‘Day 2’ here.” That’s intimacy to me.

Care

I love the women in my life. There’s nothing I love more than being a husband and a girl dad. But there’s not much about being a woman that looks appealing to me.

Cleaning her pads seems like an act of kindness worth extending. It’s not because I think it makes me a good person. It’s because she deals with stuff I’ll never have to deal with, and it feels like a meaningful contribution to take this off her plate without her having to ask.

It’s not entirely selfless. Taking care of her in ways that matter to her matters to me. It’s a chance for me to be the husband I want to be rather than just talking about the husband I want to be.

Fun

We’ve been together a long time now. It’s easy to get stuck in a routine and become complacent, especially after losing a child. This is something that’s light-hearted and makes us laugh. It’s her telling me she’s left me another ‘soldier’ or me noticing a new one and acting as excited as if I’d found an unexpected twenty in an old jacket.

It’s a chance for me to remind her, by being silly, that I love doing it and will keep doing it. Yes we go on date nights, and yes I bring home flowers.

I also wash pads.

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