Let’s face it: Most of us consider ourselves to be amazing moms – and we are – but when it’s that time of the month I want to hide in the pantry from my son hoping he figures out how to cook dinner for himself for at least a week. I haven’t heard many moms talk about wanting to give up their kids for adoption or hide from them in Mexico, but I know for a fact we have all experienced these kinds of feelings during PMS.
The sound of their whining is (of course) always annoying, but add PMS to the mix and the whining sounds like Rosanne Barr with a megaphone.
I notice myself trying to nod and smile at my son while he is asking me for something, but all the while I’m thinking, “How I can legally get him his own apartment even though he is only ten years old?” Being a single mom doesn’t help the situation either. Not only is there no one to tag-team with at the end of the day, but there’s no one else to yell at when I need to get my PMS crankiness out.
The absolute worst is after your kid goes to bed and you accidentally leave Cartoon Network on, and you start convulsing while washing the dishes or chores around the house. I’ve found myself crying and yelling profanities at that bald-headed brat Caillou while desperately trying to shut the TV off.
I finally decided to let Evan in on what’s going on every month since he sees me get sharp and pointed toward him on a monthly basis. I explained to him what happens to a woman, and how PMS makes me feel the crabbiest I have ever felt. Evan replied, “You mean like when I get allergies and they make me so crabby?” I said yes, much like that, but it happens for a week every month.
His reply was, “Thank God I don’t have a vagina.”
Watching my friends endure PMS around their own children makes me feel a lot better. I’ve witnessed them put their kids to bed at 5 p.m. after changing their clocks to read 8 p.m., just so the kids would believe it was bedtime. I’ve seen one friend put SpongeBob on the TV for 10 hours on a Saturday, plop her kid in front of the TV and lock herself in her room. OK, that was me. I can only pull off so many “my friend” examples.
The point I’m trying to make is that even though we all go through this, try not to feel guilty about it. You are not a bad mother for wanting to drop your kids off at the dry cleaners and pick them up a week later, fluffed and folded by somebody else.
Can you relate? Tell me your stories.
Send Jenny questions at splash@suntimes.com!
