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Posts Tagged ‘hormones’

Women are no strangers to the hormonal changes: we go through them monthly, when we’re pregnant, even through menopause. Lately it’s been a roller coaster around here; I’ve ditched the birth control in hopes of having another baby (eek!), and thus turned into an estrogen monster.

My body doesn’t do well with medication. Rather, just as little goes a long way and I tend to react pretty strongly when I stop taking said meds. Same goes for birth control … it’s like my body has saved up all of the vicious PMS symptoms that the pill tends to ease and the moment my ovaries get the all clear, its hormone’s-a-ragin’.

Mix that up with a toddler and … yeah, I’m saying it: here comes t-r-o-u-b-l-e.

Case in point: I take Max to storytime at the library nearly every week. Twice now we’ve had to either leave early, or not go in at all due to his determination (re: tantrums). This past Monday, we get in the room fine and he is content to play with the lock and the handle of the door to the children’s room. Until we shut it. The entire class is treated to a cacophony of his cries for a few moments until I pick him up and distract him with the window blinds.

We then try to sit down and sing a rousing rendition of “Open Shut Them,” but to no avail. Max is on his back in the middle of the room, still crying. The librarian says, “Oh Maxwell, what is wrong now?” And I reply, “He’s still mad about the door.”

I do get him up and not crying. Go me, I am Supermom.

And then he sees the fire extinguisher.

Photo courtesy of Kenn W. Kiser.

Here’s the thing that drives me crazy about every children’s library: When they offer classes for babies, toddlers and the like, why on earth are the rooms in which the classes meet not baby proofed? There always are open closets, cabinets without latches, outlets without covers and darn it, fire alarms and extinguishers a mere three feet from the floor. I mean, duh.

So there’s my Max, going after the hose of the fire extinguisher, and every time I grab him, he lets out a protest yell. I finally stand in front of the object of his affection to stop him, and he yells, grabs my leg, and tries to bite me through my jeans.

Now I’m sure the other moms and kids have had enough of his antics, but I am beyond pissed. I give him the futile, “Don’t bite mommy!” grab him, the diaper bag and make our exit. He of course, is protesting leaving now, and I’m angrily whispering, “I can’t take you anywhere!” I’m fairly certain the librarians overheard me.

The thing that kills me more than the embarrassment of Max’s behavior is the embarrassment of my behavior. I’m the adult. I should know better. And it’s the failure that whatever I did—reprimand, soothe, deny—went completely ignored by my son. Why is it when our children misbehave does it seem that everyone else’s children listen and respond to their parents?

I don’t know if there is an answer to this, since my mom polling indicates that all moms have been there. In the meantime, I wonder how long we’ll stay away from the library this time ….

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I had one once, but I threw it up against the wall when I couldn’t figure out where the batteries went. I know now I was suffering from pre-menstrual syndrome. ~Truvy Jones, of “Steel Magnolias,” on getting a radio for her carport-enclosed beauty salon.

Normally every time I hear something blamed on PMS I want to cringe, but right now, it’s true. Case in point: I’ve been trying to work on this blog all week, and I’m just not feeling it. I think I’m too cranky. I mention this to Ned, who promptly suggests that I would be better suited to write this blog when I am not feeling quite so close to the topic.

Crap.

This means Ned is noting the insane hormonal behavior. This means he has not forgotten my irreverent meltdown over not having enough sour cream in the fridge this week to finish a recipe. Or my blatant irritation when putting away his Walkman earbuds yesterday, which have been sitting on the coffee table, sans Walkman, for three days. I can only imagine if he’s observed the tearing up at commercials for “Intervention” or me wiping my eyes after I tried, in vain, to fit into a pair of non-fat jeans this weekend.

There is plenty of talk about how pregnant women can have crazy hormones … the kind that make PMS look like a cake walk. I was not one of those pg women. No pickles and ice cream, no crying at random commercials for tissue. And I never developed “pregnancy brain,” where you run back into the house every morning at least three times because you forgot your keys, in which each return to the house resulted in you not remembering that you forgot your keys … and so on.

No, those symptoms my body has saved for now, nine months into motherhood. And they go beyond the convenient PMS excuse. I’ve gotten to the point where I’m second-guessing simple decisions such as: Should I have dressed the baby in a romper today, because we’re going out to dinner and we’ll have to hold him for awhile while we wait, and his shirt will get all bunched up? Or I’ll kick myself for not having gone to the post office before storytime because now it’s almost noon and Max is freaking out in the car seat, wanting to eat.

The truth is, I hate that complete non-control over my anger and frustration. But man, some days after cleaning the house, doing laundry, making a two-hour babyproofing trip to Babies R Us, coming home to a baby that won’t take a nap, even after trying for two hours; plus the pressure of work and when am I gonna clean out my office; it all slams up against: I need to start dinner, and the stupid missing tub of sour cream is just one more thing in a long list of things you just have run out of energy to deal with.

I know it’ll all be okay. In a day or two, I’ll wake up and feel better. But right now, I have to hunt down a spoon, and what’s left of my half-gallon Publix-brand Chocolate Cookie Quarry frozen yogurt. Mmm ….

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