So I spent half of my Sunday trying to come up with some fun sounding name for PMS (just to ease things of at home with my husband): ‘Please More Sun’, ‘Prove Me Sane’, ‘Precaution; Mom’s Sick’…
But nothing really seemed to work. Maybe it was because I spend the other half of the day being just that; PMS. You know, when you are in a place where the sun never shines – and I’m not talking about Seattle here nor referring to a very private part of the body – but that place where the kids are just too loud, too obnoxious, too many and where the kind words; “do you want me to massage your feet, dear?” sounds a lot like “Do you want me to hold your breasts? They sure look tired.”
“Hey, my name is Charlotte; I’m a PMSs’imist.”
I never ever would have thought that I, the always cheerful, careless, glass is always half full kind of girl, would end up being one of them; the nagging, moody, where’s the off switch-kind of woman blaming it all on a somewhat bad case of the PMS. In fact, I never really believed there was such a thing, I mean I knew it was out there, but I never really believed it to be true. I just figured that some very smart woman had made it all up just to give herself permission to be a real bitch once a month. But that was before the twins, before my body apparently had some kind of a hormonal make over.
At first, I just thought it was my body reacting to a stressful year of double breastfeeding, the hard work with two newborns (and three kids in total), double breast infection times two, four visits to the ER etc. But when I told my doctor about my symptoms, she just smiled, placed a gentle hand on my shoulder and whispered the word: ‘PMS’, then suggesting that I start tracking my mood swings (as she nicely put it; I had referred to them as times where I felt like strangling my husband). And after a few months of sporadic tracking; there it was – on paper: I was an official PMSsy woman with an urge to kill once a month. Doctor’s advice was simple; B-vitamins, exercise and staying prepared for the moody days ahead. Making it go away or controlling it not so simple.
They say that about eighty percent of all women experience some kind of PMS at some time during their menstrual cycles. That would be like eight out of my ten friends (if I even have that many?) That would in theory mean that at least two of us (still, if I have ten friends) are being PMSsy right now, at this very moment. That would also mean that right now at least one husband, one child, one co-worker, one poor cashier, teacher, mom, mother-in-law, sister, neighbor or friend is being harassed, given the eye, yelled at, fired, talked back to, snapped at or even killed (in the mind).
I actually remember this woman in England who allegedly killed her husband under the influence of PMS and somehow got off the hook because of it. I remember thinking how far out! But with a few years of a mild case of the PMS behind me, it now all makes perfectly sense to me. I’m not saying I’m going to kill my husband, on the contrary; he might be the one killing me one day because of it and I would forgive him too, you know. It can be that bad some days and I do feel so guilty, embarrassed and deeply ashamed every time I can have a fit over absolutely nothing. Nada. Zip.
But on my good PMS days I’m happy to say that I can actually laugh immediately after I have just snapped at my husband for bringing me the world’s best latte in bed and a ‘good morning, sleeping beauty’ – killing me softly with his words.
I promise him every time that I will eventually learn how to control my crazy and rude raging female hormones, and I hope I will. Because let’s face it; It’s here and it happens every three weeks for the rest of our lives, that is; one third of our lives! Hey, I think I just found the name for it – and in an upscale F-word version too: Phucking Mood Swings. No more, no less.