Excerpts from the Sequel We All Wish Judy Blume Had Written

“Are you there God? It’s me, Margaret’s mother. My friend Susan is done with her periods. I’m so jealous God. I hate myself for being so jealous, but I am. I wish you’d help me a little. I just want to be normal. Or at least know what the hell normal is. Or be done with the goddamn hot flashes! No offense, God.”

“Every symptom I google is either perimenopause, cancer, or apprentice crone.”

“Are you there God? It’s me, Margaret’s mother. Failed the underarm smell test three days in a row—either my deodorant has stopped working or my body has, ‘cause as far as I can tell it’s always hot and humid around here. With increasing dryness in the southern regions, patchy fog up north, and a 100% chance of catastrophic flooding.”

“Is it normal to menstroo-ate every day for three weeks? Or pass clots the size of small rodents? Or want to rip Herb’s head from his body because he ‘forgot’ to unload the dishwasher?”

“Are you there God? It’s me, Margaret’s mother. Mom reports Dad’s left testicle still looks ‘more shriveled than usual.’ Herb’s mother was found wandering by the koi pond wearing only a Made Expressly for You…By Grandma sweater, mumbling about the inferior rye bread served at Sunrise, Sunset Village. Margaret took one look at the Common App and declared she wants to take a gap year to explore the art of topiary with Moose Freed! If you’re there, now would be a perfect time to rain down some of your benevolent love. ‘Cause immabout to lose it.” 

“Every symptom I google is either perimenopause, COVID, or RMS (Raging Mom Syndrome).”

“Are you there God? It’s me, Margaret’s mother. Got out of the shower today and accidentally looked in the mirror. What the fuck!?! My breasts, like my mother-in-law, have permanently moved south, my pubic hair appears to be migrating down my legs, and my mustache is rivaling Herb’s. Any chance you could conjure up a Spanx Miracle to help me squeeze into the dress I bought for Margaret’s graduation?”

“My bust! My bust! My bust provokes disgust!” 

“Are you there God? It’s me, Margaret’s mother. Are you punishing me for straying from the path of righteousness? Margaret’s sporadic attendance at the UU Fellowship—I get it. But starring as the titular amoeba in the youth group’s ‘evolutionary’ play The Glob? I swear Mom was about to throw a vial of holy water on stage when Margaret transformed from primordial goo to single-celled organism. On the bright side, Margaret has stopped blaming me and Herb for ‘making her weird.’”

“We all get soooo excited about the First Moon. WHAT ABOUT THE LAST ONE, God?? What kind of twisted deity decides that the best reward for wrapping up the childbearing years is lunar fucking limbo?”

“Are you there God? It’s me, Margaret’s mother. Where are the products for me, God? Margaret got “Teenage Softies” and the “Gro-Bra.” Where’s my support, God? Where’s my “Shrinky-Dink-Bra?” Where are my “Hag Rags,” engineered to stem the crimson tide and cushion my porcupine pubes?”

“Every symptom I google is either perimenopause, pregnancy, or Abandon Hope.”

“Are you still there God? It’s me, Margaret’s mother. I know you’re there God, and I’m beginning to suspect you have a really sick sense of humor. Three months of nothing followed by a red tsunami that wipes out Jan Wheeler’s couch? THANK YOU God. Thanks an AWFUL lot…”