pre-menstrual syndrome. of course it’s real, you idiot.

I have been feeling a little *not myself* the past couple of days.  Laundry was getting behind.  I wasn’t cleaning like a merry maid.  I had no desire to cook anything really.  Those first two things are not unheard of around here, but the cooking thing?  I always love to cook.  Mostly.  Then this morning I woke up and wanted to go directly back to bed.  I know, I know… you’re all thinking this chick must be knocked up.

How may times do I have to tell you guys this? This baby shop is closed.  However, I do still have some working parts.  Sort of.  The ones that make you turn into a raging bitch and eat a vat of Nutella once a month…I still have those.  They are AWESOME.

I remember, back in the good ol’ days when I was young, I used to think people who “had PMS” were just huge drama queen fakers.  I didn’t have mood swings or headaches or bloating.  I didn’t lose my mind and inhale jelly donuts (which I don’t even like) just because they were there and looking at me.  Nope.  I just maintained my cute size six (or sometimes 8) self and ignorantly breezed my way through memses.  Glorious.

Then I got old and some things changed.  The average month is just a little crabbiness, run of the mill stuff.  But then there are freak weeks- weeks that I really wasn’t prepared for the hormone surges and haven’t been preparing myself mentally and emotionally.  These “sneakers” are usually the most damning hell weeks.  They come on like a freight train and destroy everything in their path.  While an average few days of PMS may cause some collateral damage and a few tears may be spilled for no real good reason, Sneaker Weeks are like Tsunamis of irrational emotions that swallow up every good thing that has ever sprouted and bloomed in my life.  They have the potential of destroying sanity.  Because I start wanting to kill people for just, you know, breathing in my vicinity.

Since I basically have to check myself into the halfway house for half-breed mutant serial killers a few days a month complete with stretchy pants and wire-free bras I’m somewhat of an authority on this subject.  Frankly, I’m scared of myself.   So I’ve decided to grace you with a few pointers should you ever be in the cross hairs of a crazed lunatic in the midst of a shark attack.  Print this out.  Tape it to your bathroom mirror.  Memorize it.  It could save your life one day.

1.  Don’t ask her if she’s “feeling okay” or say things like “you look tired.”  {No shit idiot asshole.  I look like shit and feel like someone set off an alka-seltzer bomb in my abdomen.  I can barely hold my eyes open and I know that this ache in my back is early onset back and leg cramps in addition to the normal cramps which will be debilitating within the next 72 hours.  Shut your mouth!}If you should accidentally let this slip out of your mouth, just back away slowly and tell her you’re running to the store really quick to get Cadbury Chocolate Eggs and Sour Cream and Cheddar Ruffles.  This will save your life. 

2.  Under NO circumstance ask her if she got that one thing done that you’ve been asking her to do.
Man/Woman up and get it done yourself.  She already feels like the biggest loser known to man.  Reminding her of her failures to accomplish anything productive in this trying time will just make her feel crappier.  You must just do it on your own.  If you don’t know how, just buy it.  Whatever it is.  Buy it and be happy about it.

3.  Do not eat noisily.  Chew with your mouth closed and try to limit the amount of saliva you produce so as to avoid the sound of squishing within your oral orifice.  Most people suffer mild cases of Hyperacusis (mouth sound sensitivity).  Add a surge of hormones and irrationality and you just might be wearing your fork as a piercing if you’re not careful.  If you really want to be safe, just let her know you’ll be picking up dinner tonight (and eat on your way home!) and would she like you to bring home ice cream, Twinkies or Lindt chocolates to go with the Triple Crunchy Fried Chicken and Mashed Potatoes smothered in Gravy?

4.  DON’T TOUCH HER.  Don’t decide that this is the day that you’re feeling needy and really need some cuddles.  You might as well just put her in a coffin and close the lid.  Nothing says claustrophobia like Shark Week and touching.  Just go in a closet and give yourself a big hug.  It will save your life, dammit.

5.  Don’t touch her stuff.  She spends her life loving, nurturing and taking care of people.  She has hardly anything that truly belongs to her.  She has to hide in the bathroom just to get some peace and quiet most days, and if there’s small children around not even that works.  She has three things in this house that actually belong to her.  Just don’t touch it.  JUST DON’T!

6.  This is possibly the most important safety tip.  If you have children, just remove them completely from the situation.  They are not smart enough to follow these rules, plus they just remind her that this hell wouldn’t even be going on if God hadn’t decided that women were to carry babies and Eve hadn’t done whatever the hell she did to make life for all women just a damn cluster-fuck of crap anyway.  Just send them away to play for a while and then ask Grandma to intervene and save their lives.  Grandmas understand, they once endured this hell and lived to tell about it.

This list is ever-changing and evolving.  This crap won’t even work next month so on second thought, don’t memorize this list.  Just mark the dates on your calendar and schedule a getaway when you need to.  Leave behind lots of salty snacks and chocolate and hope to God menopause passes soon and your life will be spared.

mean girls

Being a mom is my biggest challenge in life.  I’m decent at being a wife.  I’m decent at cooking and cleaning and making sure things run smoothly around here. I’m also a good mom.  It’s the one thing I work really hard at.  When I say it’s my biggest challenge I don’t mean it’s the hardest thing, although it might be.  I mean it’s the thing I work at the most.  I have to- it’s constantly right in front of me, staring me in the face and asking for a cookie.

Just when I think things are running smoothly, something else comes up that we have to maneuver and find our way through.  And damn it if this child raising stuff didn’t come with a map of any kind.  Having one girl and one boy is it’s own set of problems.  What works on one definitely doesn’t work on the other and none of it makes any real sense whatsoever anyway.  Having a boy is physically exhausting, but having a girl is emotionally and mentally the most life-sucking task in the history of forever.  God made girls last because he knew it was going to take it out of him for a while.  That’s why.

So the little diva is eight.  Mostly, I don’t care for this age, but I think I get off pretty lucky because my kid is pretty awesome no matter what her age.  BUT, girls in general… not easy! (We covered that already.)  If it were just us in a bubble I think it’d be cake, but add in all the outside influences and crap and it’s just not.  Our most recent struggle and one that I fear will be a long-term pain in our collective butts: the mean girl.  How in the holy hell does The Mean Girl rear her ugly head this early on?  You just try dealing with pint size mean girls. It’s the worst!  And try raising a girl that can overcome the mean girl without actually becoming the mean girl.  GAH!

This started for Sis last year and even though we’re in a new school and it’s SO much better, there are still days.  Oh man are there days.  Yesterday we had one.  I can’t even say it was a Mean Girl episode because I don’t even know.  I do know that my girl ran from the bus and into my arms crying and wanting to crawl into her jacket and hide (her words.)  I know I still don’t know what all happened because she starts sobbing when she talks about it.  I know I almost didn’t get her to school this morning and then as soon as her spelling test was over she called and said her stomach is hurting so bad she’s going to throw up and I need to come now.  (She’s already on meds for acid reflux and basically an ulcer because she’s an internalizer like her mother.)  So I went and got her.  Who needs this crap?  We’re going to cozy up on the couch and watch girl shows and enjoy the fact that she’s a good kid.  Tomorrow we’ll talk again about being strong in the face of the mean girl.  Today I will do the mom version of taking a hurting friend out for drinks and a night of dancing to forget the crap.  That’s ice cream and making glittery crafts in front of a marathon of Victorious followed by reading “The Hunger Games” together.  Dude, I told you I’m Mother of the Year.  Don’t try to take my title.  The only reason I’m here right now is because she’s eating lunch and told me she wants some time alone before we start our date.

And in case you think I don’t give meaningful advice, last night I wrote her a long email about friendship and reminding her that she is a good person and so on and so on.  This is basically what we talk about every time this situation comes up.  I just decided to write it all out so she can refer back to it in her “Emails from Mom” (where I give all my best nuggets of motherly advice and she usually loves them.)  This time she responded back with “This email is to long, to long, to long, TO LONG.”  To which I responded, “we need to talk about the difference between to/too/and two again.”

If you have any great motherly advice for traversing the shark infested waters of raising little divas, I’d be ALL for it!  Okay, better run… she’s finished with lunch and ready for some ice cream.  (Yes, I realize it’s only 11:30 am. Shut up.)