It’s 10 o’clock in the morning. I’m sitting here eating chocolate and pouring salt on my tongue. I guess any woman reading this knows what that means. I used to not be bothered at ALL by PMS but that is certainly not the case now. My husband was the first to see it coming.
“Honey” he called yesterday.
“WHAT” I hissed back. I watched him start waving his arms.
“Danger Will Robinson, Danger Will Robinson” came the mechanical voice.
The boys know what’s happening. Today they got up and packed their lunches. There wasn’t the usual fussing about not having the right meat or the right chips. Jake even used two heels of the bread to make his sandwich. I apologized that the bread was all gone and he looked at me and said:
“Its okay mom…we know you’re busy”.
Ewww, that made me MAD.
I try to do everything the books say. I haven’t had any alcohol (yet this morning), I’m drinking a lot of water and today I actually exercised. But I still can’t shake that feeling that I want to hurt someone; anyone. I can visualize the bones of my fingers sticking out through the skin of my fingers and am actually excited about plucking my nose hairs later this afternoon.
The only thing worse than the wild fluctuations of anger I feel are my inexplicable crying jags. Like anyone I enjoy a good cry, but to have it in places like the toilet paper aisle at Shoppers Food Store is too much.
“Ma’am, can I help you?” the stock boy asks.
“You don’t have 2 ply?” I sniffed.
“I can check in the back.” is the concerned reply.
“No, I’ll be fine.” I whispered hoarsely.
People, this is NOT ME. I have four freaking boys. I went from leading men to breeding men and I’m a pretty tough mom when I reflect on it. I watched last night as a mom went rushing up to her son at a baseball game after he’d gotten hit in the leg. It wasn’t a bad hit. There wasn’t any blood or anything and the boy was twelve years old. I know that boy was MORTIFIED to have his mom come rushing up.*
(*note to moms: after about the t-ball stage rushing to your child’s side is no longer cool. Serial killers have evolved from lesser forms of humiliation.)
Meanwhile, I glanced over at my boys. The little one was down on the ground playing dead while the others were circling and sniffing him to see if he was faking it. I have learned not to intercede at such moments, less I disrupt the next stage of male evolution.
I didn’t cry the first time the boys told me they hated me; I didn’t cry when the guy with the epidural needle said,
“What is WRONG with your spine” as he jabbed me the eighth time.
I didn’t even cry when I sold my BMW convertible to get the down payment for an SUV. Now THAT was SAD.
Okay. I get it. In about a week everything will be back to normal. I’ll be my cheerful self. The boys won’t worry about stepping on my toes. I can get back to baking cookies and cleaning dust bunnies. But until then I have a much greater understanding of what puberty must be like. Of course, that’s a WHOLE different blog.
Parenting Tip of the Day: It took me a while to figure out when to back off from the boys and give them space when they were upset. That doesn’t mean I didn’t talk to them, but I’ve learned to do it when the time is right. It takes a lot of patience. We’re moms and we want to know what’s wrong immediately so we can help fix it. I read an article that said children feel safest sharing when they are doing hands on activities in a controlled space (like Lego’s at the table or throwing the ball in the yard). Then you can gently lead them into a discussion on what’s wrong. I’ve used that approach more times than I can remember with the boys and it always seems to work.