Am I a Hormone Puppet?

I don’t love to think that I am ruled by by hormones, but I am realizing I need to admit this is true. What else can explain why no important factors actually change from day to day in my life, but the way I VIEW it all can be radically different one day to the next. Just take my last post. I was irritable, cranky, quite bitchy and rather depressed there for a few days. Suspiciously, at the same time, a few rather large and oddly-placed pimples appeared on my face. There is the one over my lip that looks like a cold sore, the little pimple group on my chin, and a couple in the middle of my cheek, that are all just starting to scab and fade away today. And gosh, I’m feeling better. As my pimples disappear my mood lightens and I feel a little lift in my step. Was I really not finding much pleasure in my kids the other day? Today I think they’re wonderful!

It’s times like this that I’m happy that I have boys. I am surrounded by men, and although us mothers seem destined to be thought of as crazy by our children (and I’m pretty sure it’s because of the hormones), I’m hoping that my boys will be a little more forgiving than an equally hormonal daughter might be. There’s the reality that they simply don’t get it. Repetitive noises are making mommy scream for some reason today, but the boys just shrug their shoulders and eye me with curiosity and confusion. Then the husband wanders through the room, making a wide arc around me, and I just know they are waiting until “normal mommy/wife” comes back and the lunatic that looks like mommy leaves again.

It stinks, because if you admit to being ruled by hormones then you admit to not having complete control. I don’t know why I feel like yelling, “go away!” every time someone comes near me in the kitchen, and I didn’t really feel like that last week and won’t next, but there is nothing I can do about the fact that right now I could throw a tantrum that would impress a three-year old. So, I comfort myself knowing that I usually act the way I would consider normal, the way other people and my family members expect me to act, and then the raging, blood-shot eyed freak that I become only appears every once in a while, sort of like if mommy turns into a werewolf every full moon.

I have been saying for years that I need to record these moods, so I can figure out when to expect them and see if there is a pattern. I’m not sure what exactly I could do about the onset though, it’s not like I can book myself a three-day spa visit every month. Even though I haven’t kept track, I don’t think my moods are consistent. And my periods keep changing. A few months ago I was certain I was hemorrhaging to death, and the doctor informed me that such occurrences are normal in women around age 40. “But I’m only 38!” I insisted, but she ignored my comment and said these changes are part of aging. That hurt. I also think that it’s harder to deal with “the werewolf” when she comes and invades my body, because I can’t be alone these days just because I want to be. The werewolf isn’t really all bad, she just isn’t good around people. In years past, I can thank the werewolf for the incredible cleaning frenzies that left even the top of the refrigerator sparkling. The werewolf was certainly responsible for all the bulk items being poured into glass jars and neatly labeled with Sharpie Markers. The werewolf likes to get things done. But the werewolf does not like distractions, is not patient, reasonable or sweet, and the werewolf does not have much of a sense of humor.

So, if I can’t tame the hormone werewolf, what can I do with her? She’s not here now, but I am absolutely certain she will visit again in a month or two. I can put videos on in an endless loop for the kids or call a sitter, which might help, but no matter what I still have daily responsibilities to perform and life must go on. Maybe I can just make a sign and when I am feeling a certain way I can hang up the “werewolf on duty” sign so my family knows just what to expect.

I’ll think about it. In the meantime, I’ll enjoy the bit of sanity that my current hormone levels are affording me at the moment and put some zit cream on the last few straggler pimples on my face. 

Sick of Your Kids?

That’s not really something you’re ever supposed to say, is it, that you’re sick of your kids? I mean, aren’t we supposed to gaze on our precious little treasures every day with renewed awe and adoration?

But, I’ll admit it, I am totally sick of my kids. It doesn’t help that my entire family of four was away together non-stop for six weeks. And I’ve been together non-stop with my kids for the last 1 ½ weeks since we’ve been back. I can feel the hair on my body bristle at every whiny note in their voices. I’m a little worried about the next week together non-stop before school starts.

Whatever it is that makes my kids so utterly themselves right now is just a little too much for me to bear. The poop and fart jokes are really old, and my three-year old’s obsession with his penis is really, really old. The three-year old, Hugo, has three distinct personalities (I hope this won’t be a problem down the road): the “I’m still a little baby and can’t do anything” personality, the “I’m tired and can’t hear you or follow directions” personality, and the “man of the house” personality where he talks in a low voice and offers to carry heavy things and “help.” Right now, I am only enjoying his third personality. My older son, Jasper, doesn’t have such specific, distinct personalities, but he is very moody and overly sensitive. It is driving me crazy how much he can play the victim or get so upset when his much smaller younger brother tries to steal a lego from him or says something outrageous and obviously untrue like, “I saw a bird as big as daddy eat a goat in the park.” His bookishness is driving me a little nuts too—he would rather stick his face in any Audubon book than do almost anything else. And he follows me around the house telling me obscure facts about volcanos, tree frogs, birds and tree bark.

Even the boys differences are annoying me. We went for a bike ride this evening. Hugo was on his own bike, and Jasper, who is six, sat in the bike trailer and read a book. How can I have two children who are so different?

Oh, but I hate feeling this way. I know that recently I looked at them with genuine admiration for their quirks and differences. Now I find myself having thoughts like, “boarding school might be a nice option,” and “gosh, divorced people that live near each other can have the perfect arrangement—one week with the kids, one week without.” I am trying to find a way to recapture that feeling of delight at who they are, and the awareness that they’re growing so quickly and I need to appreciate it now. I think a nice, long break from them would help. I guess I just have to wait until school starts. 

A Break From It All

We all dream of having this from time to time, don’t we, a chance to get a break from our regular routine and a break from our cyclical thoughts? We had such an opportunity this summer. My family and I spent six weeks in Mexico to learn some Spanish and have an adventure.

I must say, it was refreshing to get a break from my day to day, and in effect, to get a break from myself. Of course, I was right there with us, but the radical change in location purged my brain of its usual thoughts and it was immediately refilled with thoughts pertaining to our immediate situation and new environment. I was very concerned with where we would buy bus tickets and if we had enough bottled water in the room to last until the next day. It was nice to only focus on immediate and basic needs. We needed to find places to eat and things to do, and our main goal was to have the activities be interesting and appropriate for each person, and for the food to be palatable for everyone and to not make us sick.

I felt so far away from my life back home, where I obsessively worry about whether our plastic food storage containers might be leaking contaminants into our food and if my kids have enough enriching activities in their schedules. There was not one drop of water consumed on our trip that did not originate in a plastic container. There were many days when no vegetables came near my children’s lips. Each day we tried to find interesting things to do or explore, but, other than a few Spanish lessons in the beginning, there were no lessons of any kind.

Let’s forget altogether about safety issues. We left all our American-ness at the airport as soon as we piled the children into a taxi, without car seats, and quickly learned that there were no working seatbelts to be found. And that was just the beginning­‑‑we had every intention of traveling as safely as possible, but often it was out of our control. For example when the taxi we were traveling in stopped to pick up another family of four going to the same destination. Each adult, including the one in the passenger seat who happened to be my husband, had a child on his or her lap with, once again, no seat belts. I think almost every automotive journey we went on entailed risks we would never consider taking in the US. It was rarely by choice. More than once we thought we could get somewhere by bus only to find out later that the last portion of the trip would take place in a camioneta, which is a pickup truck with benches installed in the back. We would get packed in there with 11 or so other people—me on the bench with a death grip on both kids and Jim standing on to the metal tail gate and hanging on to a metal bar.

I’m not saying that it’s a good thing to expose kids to health and safety risks, but it was somehow refreshing to not be surrounded by warnings of potential danger all the time. We mitigated risks as much as possible, but even so our existence those six weeks did not in any way resemble our life in the US because the safety awareness we are used to here does not exist there.

Truthfully, there really is something to the “when in Rome” attitude. We got used to the way of life there very quickly. We learned to not expect seatbelts in the cars or guardrails on the edge of mountain roads. We learned that we needed to eat so that we had to trust that the vegetables had been disinfected and the ice cubes made with purified water if we were told they were. Happy children roamed streets and parks freely everywhere we went, and I found myself feeling pretty comfortable even when the kids were not completely visible for a few minutes in a park, knowing how much they enjoyed the freedom.

Now that we are back I realize that we somehow lived without scheduled activities, broccoli and car seats. I’m happy to be back to seat belts and the ability to drink tap water andI know I will worry, once again, about too many small details in our day to day. But I am hoping I will be able to look back to this summer and relax a little bit and not sweat all the details.