So the shaman arrived on a sunny, May afternoon and my daughter, surrounded by her 6 closest friends, asks: вЂњMom, is this going to be weird?вЂќ If I could offer her a ceremony that celebrated becoming a woman, that could show her a new way of looking not just at periods, but at sisterhood and spirituality вЂ“ why not, right? The real reason I wanted to host a first moon party was to offer my daughter, and her friends, an antidote to our consumer, hyper-sexualized culture around teenage girlhood. I knew my daughterвЂ™s first moon party couldnвЂ™t just be piГ±atas and cake вЂ“ although it was really fun to make them. HeвЂ™d already become an eye-rolling teenager who scoffed at my вЂњweird ideas.вЂќ At 11, my daughter was still young enough to be a willing guinea pig for my bohemian fantasy of a female rite of passage ceremony. But at 13, he wasnвЂ™t into it and I didnвЂ™t realize at the time, he had turned the corner in age. WeвЂ™d had endless discussions over the years about rite of passage ceremonies and why they were lacking in our lives and our culture. Then, lost in the humor of actually planning a first moon party, my friend called and said: вЂњDonвЂ™t just make it funny. And although I was still coming to grips with how quickly puberty was hitting my little girl, I desperately wanted to honor this moment in her life somehow, to make it positive. We saw the bodily signs вЂ“ the breast buds, the pubic hair, the body odor. My 15-year-old son, listening in on our wine-fuelled conversation, was horrified. And suddenly, my friend and I began scheming about how we could make a vagina cake and a uterus piГ±ata. вЂњI want a first moon party,вЂќ she said, immediately after watching it. A pathetic inspiration really, but it got my 11-year-old daughter laughing and talking about something that is still relatively taboo and not often discussed вЂ“ her period.

Girl power station