Prepubescent Son + Perimenopausal Mom= Someone Will End Up Crying Every Time

Okay—so I have a degree in microbiology.  Based on this degree title, you can guess that I had to take a lot of anatomy and physiology classes.  I want my money back from UAH.  I didn’t learn one single thing in all of those classes that prepared me for a 9-year-old boy going through the beginning mood swings of puberty.  I thought boys matured slower than girls.  I thought I had time.  I thought he would start sprouting hair in unfortunate places and become a stinky boy before I had to deal with mood swings.  Well, if you thought that too, then we’re both wrong. 

My beautiful 8 lb 5 oz baby boy who came into this world after 21 hours of labor (2.5 hours of pushing—I want credit for pushing out that enormous head) has morphed into a moody, short-tempered man-child.   Where is the toddler who always said, “Mommy, you’re my bestest friend”?  Oh that’s right—now he’s the kid who slams his door and mutters under his breath when he is reprimanded for something.  He’s now the kid who cries at the drop of a hat or a minor change in plans.  He’s the kid who sobs on the refrigerator door because making two different kinds of sandwiches is “backbreaking work”. 

When you combine his mood swings and my mood swings, you have the recipe for a disaster.  I don’t know how we are going to make it through the next few years.  I can only hope that he and I survive this and come out the other side before my little girl goes through puberty.  If there are 3 crazies in the house, MB may just not come home from work one day;).

Sex Gives My Doctor The Willies

Or maybe I should rephrase that…. Talking  about sex makes my gynecologist uncomfortable.  First, I love my doctor.  She is my age (a very young 35), very knowledgeable, compassionate, and thorough.  She does have one flaw.  She is a doctor who deals almost exclusively with the hoohah and talking about sex makes her very uncomfortable.  I didn’t ask any questions about small animals or which sex toys she recommends.  We were discussing my impending uterine eviction and all that would entail.  She explained that I would be having a total hysterectomy meaning that my cervix will be removed, too.  Based on my knowledge of human anatomy and a lot of 1am Google research, I was nervous hearing this.  I wanted some reassurance that this wouldn’t negatively impact my sex life.  Close your eyes, Mom, we’re going to talk about hoohahs and weenies. 

I asked Dr. P how losing my cervix would affect my post-surgery sex life.  I haven’t seen someone that nervous since I asked my mom where babies come from when I was in the 4^th grade.  God bless Dr. P --she began fidgeting with her computer and shifting in her seat.  She wouldn’t look me directly in the eye.  Didn’t she take some classes on this stuff in medical school?  I used medical terminology.  I even used the words “intercourse” and “post-coital”.  She was sweating and drinking water.  I was worried for her health if I continued my line of questioning.   She gave me a few roundabout answers including, “Well, it’s different for everyone” and “It’s really difficult to know those things ahead of time”.  Not selling the finer points of this surgery, Dr. P.  Finally, I let her off the hook and decided to continue my own research.   I also enlisted the husband’s help in some field research.  Ewww—not outside.  There are bugs and dirt out there;).  

Magic Mike Makes Me Cry Too

So… my sister wanted to go see Magic Mike and we planned our girls’ day to go see it.  All was well with the world as we waited with the throngs of overly excited women filling the theater.  As the previews started, I burst into tears and began sobbing about something which shall forever go unexplained.  I, who share shamelessly, won’t give you all of the mystifyingly irrational details of this breakdown.  Let’s just say I misunderstood something because my phone’s internet connection inside the theater sucked.  I cried for several minutes, sniffling and babbling incoherently.  All the while, wanton females were shoving popcorn in their mouths in anticipation of seeing man booties.  My sister who knows me pretty well was at a loss as to how to deal with weepy sitting next to her.  First, she handed me tissues.  Then she asked if I needed popcorn or chocolate.  When neither of these tactics worked, she tried to console me which was very awkward for both of us.  While we love each other deeply, my sister and I do not have a huggy, say “I love you” kind of relationship.  This is most likely due to my overwhelming dislike of hugs.  So… girding herself for what was to come, she put her arm around my shoulders and said something akin to “there, there”.  Holy awkward, Batman!  She said, “I know you hate hugs but I just don’t know what else to do.”  I am pretty sure she was desperate to stop the weeping because I was harshing the Magic Mike mood of the ladies (and one 70+ gentleman) around us. 

Well, eventually the webpage I was trying to see loaded completely on my phone, and I was able to see that I had clearly overreacted.  I sniffled again, dried my eyes, wiped my nose, and enjoyed some Magic Mike right alongside every other woman in the KC metro area. 

Sometimes Jesus Makes Me Cry...

Before you start sending me nasty emails, let me explain.  This may surprise some of you, but I do go to church.  The last several times we have gone have resulted in me making an unexpected and teary exit before the service is finished.  Anything can trigger the weeping.  It could be something said during the sermon or it could be the feeling of being surrounded by pregnant bellies everywhere (or 2 out of 150 people—those are overwhelming numbers) or it could be lint balls floating in the air.  Sometimes I have to leave during the sermon, but occasionally I can wait until a song and sneak out while everyone is standing.  I think the people at church might be getting worried. The poor greeter guy at the door looks like a deer in the headlights as I pass by him weeping.  He is an older gentleman and is so sweet and kind.  He always smiles and says hi as we enter the sanctuary and I am dry-eyed.  When I am making my hasty, red-eyed exit, he looks like can’t decide whether to ask me if I am okay or to run in the other direction.  I just keep my head down and get out the door as fast as possible.  I go to the car and wait patiently for my family to join me.

My baby daddy picks up the kids from child care and gets everyone out to the car.  Then he draws a steadying breath and tries to determine what level of freak out he is going to have to deal with.   He has tried a variety of questions to ascertain this information.  I believe I saw him whip out the mental notebook and jot down a quick note that, “So what set you off this time?” was a poor question choice last Sunday.  Depending on the level, he will begin damage control.  Sometimes it is just hand-holding and quiet understanding.  Other times it involves telling Crazy that he understands what she is going through.  He’s getting better and better at determining the most appropriate course of action.  He’s a natural problem-solver, my man. 

World's Worst BFF

When you feel like you haven’t been the best friend you could be to someone, rest assured you are probably doing better than I am.  I suck at being a friend right now.  I really want that “right now” to be true.  I would like to think I have been a good friend in the past.  I would love to think that I will again one day soon.  But right now I fully recognize that I suck as a friend.  Why is that, you ask.  Oh, well let me tell you. 

I have forgotten how to use the phone.  Not literally—the insanity hasn't gotten that bad yet.  But there are days where I forget to return calls or simply just touch base with someone I care about.  I went two weeks without talking to my mom, a person I normally talk to at least once a day.  It was a combination of forgetting to call and simply not being able to pick up the phone.  My phone is tiny—I’m sure I could have physically picked it up.  But sometimes the thought of making conversation with anyone is overwhelming.   I have ignored my phone for days on end because the only social interaction I was able to deal with was my children and husband.  There are two people in my life who won’t stop calling so I am forced to talk to them.  You know who you are, Angie and Kerri.  They won’t take “stop calling” for an answer which is a good thing.  I am forced to talk to them occasionally just to get the stupid phone to stop ringing and because they know where I live and wouldn't hesitate to come over. 

For whatever reason, texting , tweeting, and interacting online (I don’t know why, but that sounds scandalous;) with some of my peeps has saved the few remaining shreds of sanity I have.  I think it is a control thing.  I can walk away from any of those interactions when I need a break.  There is no pressure.  I respond when I want, and I can think about what I want to say before I say it (though I rarely do).  To those friends, thank you.  You make me giggle and sometimes even snort (though not often because I am a delicate flower;).  I love y’all and am so thankful for our texts, tweets, emails, and FB conversations. 

My New Year’s resolution for 2017 is to be a better friend.  It’s not procrastinating…. It’s planning really far ahead.

Unicorns, Rainbows, & Kitchen Knives

So… have you ever wondered what happens when one of those people who always sees the best in people and situations goes through depression and then early perimenopause?  You end up hiding the kitchen knives.  I’m only kidding if a member of law enforcement is reading this.  I have always been one of those people who expected and wanted to see the very best in the world and the people closest to me.  As one friend put it, “You are just all unicorns and rainbows, aren’t you?”  And I was until my body turned on me.  I have been taken hostage by a crazy bitch who will cut you.   Only figuratively, of course.   If I were to stab someone, who do you think would have to clean that mess up?  That’s right—me. 

My mood swings are so severe that they would put a redheaded two-year-old hopped on sugar to shame.  Just a few hours ago, I announced with a very beleaguered sigh that I was going to sleep because no one likes me and I just didn’t want to think about it anymore.  To my husband’s credit, he wisely kissed me on the cheek and said, “Sorry, sweetie.  I love you.  Good night.”  Now 3 hours later and wide awake, I can look back and recognize the slight exaggeration in my comment and sadness.  But rest assured—the crazy will come back and probably be more dramatic than that in a few hours.  My husband (let’s call him MB) is a very smart man and is learning how to handle me a little better with each and every moment of insanity.  A few months ago, he might have tried to convince me that people like me and give me examples of this.  I would have argued with him, cried, become more belligerent.  It wouldn’t have ended well for anyone.  We are on this journey together.  This portion of the journey is nothing either of us would have chosen.  It is difficult and has and will test what our marriage is made of.  These days instead of trying to convince me I’m being irrational he just tries to be supportive and understanding of the wildly unhinged redhead in his bed and prays that she can’t find where he hid the knives.