When you think of the significant milestones in a young woman’s life—first period, first bra, first kiss—there’s one pivotal experience that often goes unrecognized: the first time reading Forever… by Judy Blume. As an awkward, book-loving pre-teen, I devoured Blume’s collection of middle-grade novels—Superfudge, Blubber, Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret?—but there was one title that eluded me.
My older sister owned a well-worn paperback of Forever…, featuring a cover image of a girl with a wistful expression, brimming with newfound sexual knowledge. “This book is way too mature for you,” she declared, as if she had ascended to an enlightened level of wisdom far beyond my reach. Naturally, I was intrigued by the forbidden content, so at the tender age of twelve, I stealthily borrowed her copy and read it under the covers with a flashlight—multiple times. The scene where Michael and Kath first have sex on the floor became a nightly ritual for me. Eventually, fearing I’d be caught, I took the book to school and disposed of it in the cafeteria trash.
Forever… imparted my foundational knowledge about sex—like the importance of using a “sheath” to avoid “VD,” the quirky habit of naming body parts, and Kath’s mother’s sage advice that “you can’t go back to holding hands.” However, the wisdom I garnered from Blume’s works extended far beyond the realm of sexual education. As we celebrate her 77th birthday, let’s reflect on some of the invaluable lessons she taught.
From Iggie’s House, I learned that the end of a friendship feels catastrophic, yet it’s not the end of the world, and that casual racism is pervasive in everyday life. Blubber opened my eyes to the reality that the guy next to me in class is actually picking his nose and saving his treasures on a piece of notebook paper. In Deenie, I discovered there’s even a term for “touching your special place.”
Starring Sally J. Freedman As Herself taught me about the oddities of childhood, including being the epicenter of a lice outbreak (thanks for that, Camp Maplewood). Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret revealed that not every girl dreads getting her period—some are eagerly awaiting it—and that menstruation isn’t the absolute conclusion of childhood.
In Then Again, Maybe I Won’t, I learned about boys, their confusing bodies, and yes, even that classmate saving his boogers was dealing with all that awkwardness too. Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing showed me that not every hyperactive younger sibling is as adorable as I thought; cuteness is often fleeting. Lastly, Otherwise Known As Sheila the Great reminded me that girls can be incredibly mean (ugh, that “slam book”), but they can also forgive and move on.
In It’s Not the End of the World, the title itself became a comforting mantra during tough times, like dealing with divorce—an eye-opening reality I hadn’t yet encountered.
Judy Blume’s works provided me with a treasure trove of insights into the complexities of growing up, relationships, and self-discovery. To learn more about navigating life’s challenges, check out this post on Cervical Insemination, or if you’re interested in at-home insemination, visit Make a Mom for a reliable kit. Additionally, for further insights into donor insemination, this resource on pregnancy is invaluable.
In summary, Judy Blume’s books offered me not just stories, but life lessons that shaped my understanding of womanhood and the journey of growing up.
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