Warning: This entire post is going to be TMI.
Okay, check this out. Despite what my family seems to believe, I am not just a mother and wife. Guess what? Turns out I’m a woman, too. Who knew?
Well, my uterus, for one. And every month we go through the same crap.
You know that stereotypical, over-emotional, roller-coaster-mood-swing, played up for laffs PMS chick on all the sitcoms. The one that can’t possibly be true.
I am her.
The hard part is controlling it.
For example: I get ridiculous fatigue during this time. So if I cleaned the kitchen the night before, know that it was due to either my own herculean effort, or the herculean effort of making my kids do it. Now, if, after I have literally dragged myself out of bed (picture an army crawl off of a platform bed and into the bathroom) and downstairs to hurl myself at the coffee pot, I don’t want to see any mess. None.
What do I see?
A drop of milk. On the counter. This is enough to send me into a volcanic rage. But, I control my inner Hulk. Instead of pounding them all into bloody smears on the linoleum, I settle for a theatrical sigh while making a big production of cleaning it up.
They feel I am making too big a deal out of it. They have no clue how close to being bloody smears they came. Thing is, I would have been the one to clean the aforementioned smears up, too.
Or: I admit to being a crier, anyway. I like a good cry. But PMS week takes it to A. Whole. Nother. Level. I watched a video of a baby elephant that was stuck in a hole being reunited with its mother, and I swear I was an emotional wreck for the next three hours. I don’t mean silently weeping with tears running down my stoic face. Nuh-uh. I mean I throw myself face down on the bed shuddering and heaving, eyes and lips swollen and red, mouth wide open UGLY cry. Honestly, you would have thought someone died. Nope. Baby elephant. And now I have to pull myself together to make dinner. Just because Mom is an emotional wreck, doesn’t mean that people aren’t whining about being hungry. Yeah, you, Big Man.
And: Speaking of being hungry. I have already told ya’ll about my Team Chunk membership. Well, PMS turns regular Chunk into OHMYGOD HOW DID THIS BODY HAPPEN? And of course I feel this way now, when my stomach is a bottomless pit that must be filled with fried carbs and chocolate. Now said stomach is also bloated and then I see it in the mirror and OHMYGOD HOW DID THIS BODY HAPPEN? So on and so forth. Finally, Kid Sensation knocks on my bathroom door because I have been obsessing so long he started to miss me. (And you guys, other than this one week, I tend to think pretty highly of myself. That’s how bad it is. I spiral down from chunky lil’ sexpot to The Blob.)
Then: For approximately the entire week, when I am not crying, binging, raging, or sleeping, I exist in a permanent state of irritation. Everything gets on my nerve. That’s right, folks, I only have one nerve left and everyone gets on it. But I can’t show it. I mean seriously, who wants a mom who’s being a major bee-you-know-what for a week straight. Honestly, I start to get on my own nerve after a while. Yup, you guessed it—I start to get irritated with being irritated. What. The fish paste. Is. That.
It’s enough to make me consider morning drinking. Except I have to get out of bed to do it, and then see that drop of milk on the counter. Not worth it.
Am I the only one that goes this crazy? Ya’ll let me know.