I won’t say, “Just as I think I have the hang of it…” because I know I don’t. The closest I get to having the hang of it is having the wherewithal to keep my knees loose so that I can sprint, duck, twist or hurl myself in whatever direction the next moment demands. So, no, I don’t have the hang of it. I did for just a moment think I understood me.
I thought I knew what I held dear and what I didn’t monitor, whether it was nuisances, hurdles or possessions. I do know what I hold dear and I do know what I ought to not give a flying fig about, but there’s a catch. I have been pregnant or breastfeeding since December of 2003.
December. 2003. Count backwards with me…never mind. Let’s just agree it’s a long time. I’ve gone from 30 to almost 37. I’ve gone from newlywed to “Hi, we own a business and have three kids 5 and under and oh yeah, or house has been on the market for 5 months.” And that’s not even it.
It is something that makes me blush. It is actually something I have never understood but mother of pearl with three kids, a husband and staring down the barrel of 40 I should know.
My period*. Or, more embarrassing yet, PMS.
Damn, that was hard.
I remember being pregnant and having these coliseum worthy meltdowns over things like water platters from the iron dimpling a shirt and meat being the wrong side of char broiled. Sean would softly murmur, “Babe, this isn’t you, it’s the hormones.” I would seethe, the suggestion that my outbursts weren’t 100% rationale and within my control infuriated me. There would be much crying followed by snorty laughter as I’d say, “Whew, that really was the hormones, huh?” Sean, wise beyond his years said nothing.
Fast-forward all these years (and tantrums- mine, not the kids) and I realize that my monthly (duh!) inability to cope with certain things is simply a by product of a very predictable thing. Despite being a “grown up” and managing amazing things, without a little plastic disk and easily marked days of the week and month, I can’t track my cycle.
I still have a sheepish blush about the whole thing, but in the same way I am trying to stay ready for the kids, the house and my marriage, I need to stay ready for me. The good one and the bad one.
I’m thinking I’ll use a calendar and when the danger zone is approaching I’ll color a circle on my hand and on the other side I’ll write, “Breathe, this’ll all be over in about 72 hours.”
* I promise that I will never, ever write about that again.
I can relate. I actually went to talk to my doctor about things like this. She told me that there have been few, if any, studies done on women our age (post babies, pre-menopause) and we have so much stress. She admitted to feeling like getting in the car and leaving everything behind when she was this age.
Seems like it must be sort of normal. I doesn’t really change anything to know that, but it made me feel slightly better to know that I’m not the only one who is crazy.
Hopefully the 72 hours have come and gone. I’m sorry. On the bright side though I *love* your new set up here.
Sometimes I think the hormones also bring some kind of anesthesia that makes you unaware at the time – what is going on. You might realize afterwards, but in the midst of? Sometimes not recognizable. To ourselves anyway. That’s bring true of me for a long time, although it took me to be into my 40’s before I could stop and say “wait, is this PMS?” Now at 50 – I’m just waiting for the whole damn thing to get done with!
I couldn’t agree more. It is unthinkable that I can forget just how nasty PMS is from month to month. Days after the “rage and emotion” it dawns on me when my period arrives that I was PMSing. How do we forget?
Great Great blog! really enjoyed my visit and will come back again soon!
I loved your own post.Great subject.