For seven days every month, I am a really horrible version of myself. I am not alone. I have horrible company in my horrible female friends during their horrible days of each month. Sometimes, a group of us are gnarly at once. Other times we seamlessly pass the baton of horribleness in relay fashion, until each of our personal treks of evil are finished. During my horrible week I am so horrible that I contemplate eating my young. I mentally and emotionally abuse my mate and my behavior even disgusts my own horrible self. I manage all this from under a shearling of exhaustion combined with glucose poisoning triggered by out of control chocolate binging. I'm getting my period.
Super mom has left the building.
With this gift, came my alter-ego's nickname, coined by Todd. Her name is Hormona. Dads and children are defenseless against my menstrual persona. She is curt, prone to wicked outbursts, intolerant, judgmental, flippant, unpredictable and a jerk. I never asked for this gift.
Super mom has left the building.
With this gift, came my alter-ego's nickname, coined by Todd. Her name is Hormona. Dads and children are defenseless against my menstrual persona. She is curt, prone to wicked outbursts, intolerant, judgmental, flippant, unpredictable and a jerk. I never asked for this gift.
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| Last smile captured for a week |
When I was in high school, having my period changed nothing about me and PMS was still years away. Thankfully so was parenthood. High school menstruation was relatively easy compared with mommy-menses. I was energetic enough to saw wood, run a mile. Cogent enough to follow multi-step directions while being as pleasant as your average teenager. At 14, I never imagined my uterus and its future propagating cycle was a breeding ground for a future non compos mentis 38-year old mother.
At almost 40, kindly say "hello" to me the day before my period and I might run you over with my car. Ask me the same question twice and I may implode in front of your eyes. Remind me I promised to play Barbie with you and I may chew her perfect head off while you scream and run for cover. I become a miserable, horrible version of me. I don't like the PMS version of me, so how can anyone in my family like me? Turns out they don't.
If the period arrived stag without the PMS, I'd manage and my family would live to exceed the average life expectancy in our country. Just a period, I'm tired but pleasant, slow moving but capable and generally in sweatpants. Batch in PMS (Psychosis, Madness, Sarcasm,) and we have a different dialogue altogether. There is literally a hemi v.12 engine of diabolical cruelty in my body that goes from 0 to 60 in three seconds flat. Parenting through PMS is almost impossible. It's on par with parenting while battling a ferocious case of the Norwalk virus overlayed with the flu.
I expect everyone in my universe to recognize the warning signs and follow the necessary rules for survival. We do it as a matter of course when on an airplane. My expectations for my family are simple; don't ask me if you can do it yourself. If you know the answer, don't ask me the question. If you don't like my answer, don't ask the question again, my answer isn't changing. Don't hide the chocolate because each bite will buy you incremental safety from my madness. Put yourself to bed because I can't promise I'll be nice. Get the shoes away, the single sweaty sweat sock out of my dining room and hang your coats up. Eat it because I made it and clean it when you're finished.
Additionally, the banister to the basement is not a coat rack. My tweezer is not for arts and crafts. Don't ask me why my tush looks like that or mention that I have period breath, whatever that is. Please don't stare at the gigantic pimple on my forehead while you're talking to me. Don't wake me in the middle of the night, wake your father - he's not losing iron at a dangerous rate. Think before you speak. Answer me on the first go. Don't speak while I am. Don't make me count to three and don't make me carry through on my threats. Don't complain about homework or Hebrew school - just do it and you're going. Spend as much time as you can in your own room, quiet and under my radar. Eat what I serve you. Tie your own shoes and remember to take your lunch to school. It won't hurt you either, if you mention how great a mother I am, throughout the day.
With all this power comes great responsibility. My body as airplane knows exactly when to drop its oxygen masks and illuminate the buckle your belts icon. As pilot of Menses Air, it's my job, regardless of turbulence or lightening, to get my family of passengers safely to their destinations. After landing the figurative aircraft, there is never a shortage of hugs and kisses, love and laughter at the arrivals gate. Mommy's home!
At almost 40, kindly say "hello" to me the day before my period and I might run you over with my car. Ask me the same question twice and I may implode in front of your eyes. Remind me I promised to play Barbie with you and I may chew her perfect head off while you scream and run for cover. I become a miserable, horrible version of me. I don't like the PMS version of me, so how can anyone in my family like me? Turns out they don't.
If the period arrived stag without the PMS, I'd manage and my family would live to exceed the average life expectancy in our country. Just a period, I'm tired but pleasant, slow moving but capable and generally in sweatpants. Batch in PMS (Psychosis, Madness, Sarcasm,) and we have a different dialogue altogether. There is literally a hemi v.12 engine of diabolical cruelty in my body that goes from 0 to 60 in three seconds flat. Parenting through PMS is almost impossible. It's on par with parenting while battling a ferocious case of the Norwalk virus overlayed with the flu.
I expect everyone in my universe to recognize the warning signs and follow the necessary rules for survival. We do it as a matter of course when on an airplane. My expectations for my family are simple; don't ask me if you can do it yourself. If you know the answer, don't ask me the question. If you don't like my answer, don't ask the question again, my answer isn't changing. Don't hide the chocolate because each bite will buy you incremental safety from my madness. Put yourself to bed because I can't promise I'll be nice. Get the shoes away, the single sweaty sweat sock out of my dining room and hang your coats up. Eat it because I made it and clean it when you're finished.
Additionally, the banister to the basement is not a coat rack. My tweezer is not for arts and crafts. Don't ask me why my tush looks like that or mention that I have period breath, whatever that is. Please don't stare at the gigantic pimple on my forehead while you're talking to me. Don't wake me in the middle of the night, wake your father - he's not losing iron at a dangerous rate. Think before you speak. Answer me on the first go. Don't speak while I am. Don't make me count to three and don't make me carry through on my threats. Don't complain about homework or Hebrew school - just do it and you're going. Spend as much time as you can in your own room, quiet and under my radar. Eat what I serve you. Tie your own shoes and remember to take your lunch to school. It won't hurt you either, if you mention how great a mother I am, throughout the day.
With all this power comes great responsibility. My body as airplane knows exactly when to drop its oxygen masks and illuminate the buckle your belts icon. As pilot of Menses Air, it's my job, regardless of turbulence or lightening, to get my family of passengers safely to their destinations. After landing the figurative aircraft, there is never a shortage of hugs and kisses, love and laughter at the arrivals gate. Mommy's home!
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