Noted

I sat in the bathroom of my childhood home, praying that the thudding on the stairway was just my sister practicing her elephant impression and not the telltale clomp of Dad's hefty work boots.

At the age of thirteen, I had to navigate the complexities of teenage girlhood without maternal guidance, which made the experience all the more awkward. I lived with my father then and had little to no interaction with my mother.

Fortunately, my father more than made up for most of his former spouse's shortcomings. He was the best dad a kid could ask for and a real superhero in many ways. However, his powers were understandably limited in certain areas. 

In the bewildering world of teenage girlhood, dear old dad lacked any expertise, especially regarding those "special" changes. You know, the changes that typically prompt a list of awkward questions best addressed by someone with a bit more... let's say, internal insight. Like a parent with matching anatomy, maybe. Indeed, when it came to these natural rites of passage, he was just plain clueless… Period.

“Y-you okay?” Dad's voice came muffled through the door.

“YES, DAD,” I bellowed, my face burning with embarrassment.

In reality, I was far from okay. The infamous monthly visitor had decided to make its grand debut. An uninvited visit that my sister had somewhat prepared me for recently, in a bout of sisterly foresight. Anticipating my imminent need, she directed me to the hidden pad stash kept in her bedroom closet. 

My sister's room, with its pad treasure trove, might as well have been on some far-off island. So, there I sat, immobilized by fear, cramps, and teenage misery.

Dad, ever the concerned parent, checked in again after what felt like an eternity.

“Hey, uh, you sure everything's okay in there, kiddo?”

That's when it hit me. Hiding in this bathroom was ridiculous. This was my dad, the person I trusted more than anyone, who must have understood that his daughters were bound to experience the wonders of womanhood eventually.

"Um, not really, Dad. Could you grab me something? I need, well… A pad. I need a pad, Dad," I said, my voice a mix of desperation and embarrassment.

Before I could elaborate, he was on it. "You got it!"

I felt a wave of relief. Dad was unfazed, and clearly, he even knew where to retrieve one! He'd probably been through this drill with my sister.

Soon, I heard the sound of his work boots approaching. Then, a slim object slid under the door - a pad.

A small, yellow, lined… notepad.

"So, did you want a pen or a pencil?" he asked, cluelessly.

I was in a state of utter shock, staring at the familiar, little yellow legal pad on the bathroom floor. It was one of the many my father habitually bought in bulk and kept handy in his office drawer. His office, the very place from where he retrieved my requested "pad,” happened to be conveniently positioned just next to my sister's room.

I sat there, speechless with humiliation, and genuinely unsure whether I would break down in tears or burst out laughing.

"…Kiddo?" My poor father reluctantly asked, ready to slide a pen or pencil under the door.

In Dad’s defense, it wasn't entirely unreasonable for him to assume that I would make such a request, given my constant writing habits, even as a child. And what better time to find inspiration than while perched upon the porcelain throne? I started to feel a bit silly about the level of my embarrassment.

So, I took a deep breath, and responded with the only thing I could, considering the situation…

"…pencil."