My Own Red Tent

Today is not the day to blog. But since I haven’t posted since Tuesday, I feel an obligation to you to post something, especially since I said I would do my best to blog at least every other day. As my mother always said, “Be careful what you ask for.”

It’s the beginning of the third week of the month and the third week of the month is not a good one for me. I am not rational. I am not level-headed. If I hear someone breathing wrong, there is a good chance this will incite me to yell. It is not a day (or week for that matter) to ask me too many questions, or need me in any way that requires even a tiny bit of effort on my part. And you can be damn sure I’m not going to cook anything.

Years ago, after a rant with my PCP that went something like, “I hate my kids I hate my life I hate my husband I hate where I live I hate my haircut I hate how my finger nail grows out with a split in it I hate the way the baseboards are always dusty I hate how my husband blinks I hate how the cat is fluffy” she decided I probably suffered from PMDD or pre-menstrual disphoric disorder. In other words, PMS with a really, really bad case of PMS.

That was some years back and since then I’d like to think my hormone levels have regulated themselves back to something more along the lines of your run-of-the-mill PMS. Maybe it’s the weather that also has me all messed up, because this particular third week of the month it seems like my PMDD symptoms are back. Mainly because I’m feeling like I hate my kids I hate my life I hate my husband I hate where I live I hate my haircut I hate how my finger nail grows out with a split in it I hate the way the baseboards are always dusty I hate how my husband blinks I hate how the cat is fluffy even though my cat kicked it two years ago.

Now I’m starting to cry. F’ing dead cat.

Just to be sure I’m still sane, I went online to check out the symptoms for PMDD, you know, to reassure my crying, unreasonable psyche that I’m normal and not experiencing anything out of the ordinary. Here’s what I found on the Google Health Website:

“The symptoms of PMDD are similar to those of PMS, but they are generally more severe and debilitating. Five or more of the following symptoms must be present:

• Disinterest in daily activities and relationships

Is the fact that I don’t want to make dinner, fold laundry, or talk to my children considered ‘disinterest’ or occasional normal mom behavior?

• Fatigue or low energy

After my two hour nap today, it took every ounce of strength I could muster to open my eye lids. Don’t even get me started about how long it took to put my slippers back on.

• Feeling of sadness or hopelessness, possible suicidal thoughts

The good news here is that I’m not experiencing any suicidal thoughts, but I am seriously thinking about applying for a year-long sabbatical from this house. I am feeling some sadness at the fact that we’re not going anywhere exotic for spring break (or anywhere at all actually) and hopeless that my house will ever have more than two rooms that are clean simultaneously.

• Feelings of tension or anxiety

This is pretty much how I live everyday. What’s wrong with tension and anxiety? They are practically my writing muses. They live on each shoulder. I wouldn’t even know how to wake up in the morning without Tension and Anxiety.

• Feeling out of control

Yes. Practically my whole life. If this is a tell-tale sign of PMDD, then I’ve had it since I was 10 and while I was pregnant.

• Food cravings or binge eating

Do the six M&M cookies I ate before dinner and the five I’m eating after dinner count as binge eating? Or that I want to eat anything from Paula Deen's cookbook?

• Mood swings marked by periods of teariness

Doesn’t every wife cry when her husband calls and says he’s going to be late coming home from work? Or when the box of spaghetti falls onto the nasty floor? Or when you just missed Cooking with Paula Deen and now Rachael Ray is on and you CAN’T STAND Rachel Ray? I don’t think I’m an anomaly here.

• Panic attacks

I know something about panic attacks and can safely say I haven’t had one in a really long time. Which makes me worry that I’m long overdue for one, which leaves me feeling our of control.

• Persistent irritability or anger that affects other people

Affects how? I’d like them to clarify this because sometimes my persistent irritability and anger doesn’t affect anyone. Most of the time my family ignores me.

• Trouble concentrating

I’m sorry,….what?

• Physical symptoms, such as bloating, breast tenderness, headaches, and joint or muscle pain

Maybe bloating is the reason my normal jeans are getting snug and I have a slight case of dun-lap disease. Yes, yes, it’s got to be bloating and not the cookies I’m binge eating.

• Sleep disturbances

Like my two year old running into my room every 10 minutes during my nap when my son was supposed to be keeping an eye on her? The kids are a sleep disturbance for sure, but I’m not sure that a third person qualifies as a PMDD symptom. I’m happy to blame it on them though.

After reading the list of symptoms I’m no closer at knowing if what I’m experiencing is PMDD or just a normal case of the bad-day-blues. I can tell you that Leah, Rachel, and Dinah had the right idea escaping to a red tent for one week of every month. I could use my own red tent in the backyard right now; affixed with a large flat screen TV, a bucket of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, a comfy couch and cozy warm blanket for snuggling, and a mile-high stack of romantic comedies and chic flicks. And a kid-proof zipper.

Birds and Bees Part II- Truth and Evasion

I suppose I should be celebrating that my son is so inquisitive and precocious. The fact he really likes to know how things work and how things are all interrelated–and that usually he really does understand how things tie together in this world—could be a great sign that he will be a scientist, or philosopher, or even one of the greatest thinkers of his generation. Or it could be a sign that he will inevitably know all our family secrets way before I am ready to divulge them.
Let’s hope for the former.

I managed to evade (to some degree) his questions about how those pesky little mechanical sperm get inside the mom, why some die off, and how moms don’t have a baby every year if they always get new sperm—only to be hit with the following question at 8:30 a.m. Why do these questions always surface at meal times?

“Mom, how long were you and dad married before I was born?” I choke on my bagel. This sounds innocuous, you say. What’s the big deal?

Well, the big deal is that David and I were married for four short (or long, depending on how you look at it) months before our little boy blessed us with his presence. The fact that I was five months pregnant when we tied the knot is no family secret. It was fairly obvious to all at the wedding as well—even if I wasn’t really showing—because I couldn’t stop rubbing my belly all night long. I haven’t seen most brides do this, so unless my guests thought that the stuffed chicken was giving me indigestion, I’m sure they figured out the news as well.

Don’t get me wrong, I had (and have) no intentions of keeping this some deep, dark family secret only to be revealed at my death. But I also had no intentions of telling my (then) second grader exactly how long it was before he was born. Not at age seven.

“Why do you want to know?” I asked.
“I just want to know how long you and Dad were married before I was born.”
“Well, Dad and I were married in December and you were born in April.”

I was thinking that maybe he wouldn’t count the months. I was thinking that he probably doesn’t even know how long a pregnancy is.

“December, November, October, January,..” he kept going, looking at me for some direction. “Is that the right way to count them?” I knew he had the concept down, thank God he kept getting the months wrong. Finally I had an answer.

“Eli, Dad and I were married in 1998 and you were born in 1999.”
“Wow! That’s a long time!” he answered and skipped away.

I realize I have only bought myself a few weeks. At most. The main problem now, is that when we finally have the conversation about mechanical life forms getting inside mom, all these questions are going to surface again.

Stumped on the last questions and how to go about explaining them, I took the kids to the public library. While they were glued to the computer games I silently whispered to the children’s librarian, my face behind an open picture book, “Do you have any books on the facts of life; something I could use to help explain it to my second grader?” No matter that I am a 34 year-old mother of two and clearly expecting my third. I felt like an embarrassed teen-ager who just told her mom she got her period. The librarian had that sympathetic look and sigh, as if she had heard this question a million times, and led me to the section where all the SECRET BOOKS are kept. Actually, it was right there, third shelf down, within a toddler’s reach. Across the isle from astronomy and right above cooking. Shouldn’t these books be kept behind glass? With the Playboy and Hustler magazines?

Each book was a tad different in its approach, from glazing over the whole making-love/sex part, to actually describing in full detail, exactly how the man part gets in the woman part. I chose three books; one with specific facts and fabulous 70’s color pictures, one that glossed over the sex and focused on the development of the baby, and one by Dr. Ruth Westheimer.
I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that she wrote a book for children on the subject of sex. I was a little skeptical of a book from Dr. Ruth, because she is such an advocate of being open about sexuality and about sex being a healthy part of life. I’m one of those moms who wants to tie sex to marriage, as well as all the baggage that accompanies unmarried sex. Sex isn’t sex without the guilt. This is one of those times in my life when “Do as I say, not as I do,” comes in really handy. But Dr. Ruth’s book handled the subject well:

“When boys and girls grow up, they become adults. And when adults love each other very much, they get married. At some point, the grown-ups might decide to try to get pregnant and have a baby. So, the man puts his penis inside the woman’s vagina. This is called having sex.”

Direct. Straight-forward. Pulling no punches. Now I like the fact that sex and the baby are mentioned after the love-each-other-very-much part and the marriage part. But let’s face it, as an adult—even a good Catholic one—not all stories start (or end) like that. So, my problem? Later Dr. Ruth says, “After growing inside the mommy for nine months, the baby is ready to be born.”
Ah, there’s the rub.

I can pretty much bet on the fact that after reading this story with my son, I will get the question again. Oh, it might not be for a day or two, maybe even a week if I am lucky, but it will definitely be before he turns 18. I was hoping to hold out until at least 18. The conversation will probably go something like this:
“Mom, a baby takes nine months to grow, right?”
“Yep.”
“Well, you and daddy got married in December and I was born in April. That means… (silence while he counts) I was only in your tummy for 4 months?” You were a miracle child, I want to say.
“No, you were in my tummy for nine months.” I hate telling the truth.
“Well, the book said that sex happens AFTER mommies and daddies get married, right? Then how did you have me only four months after that?”
Well….

My mother is probably sobbing with hysterical laughter right now. On the floor. Holding her sides. There’s a reason I told you to wait, her eyes giggle. There’s a reason the church says to wait, too. I told you so, I told you so, I told you so.

Apparently, it’s so you don’t have to try and explain the intricacies of sex and life to a second grader who wants to know how everything works.

Birds and Bees- Part 1

I was wondering when he would start putting the pieces together. I knew we were just biding time. Here I was five months pregnant, and except for a brief conversation about how a sperm and an egg meet to form a baby-there were no questions. In fact, we made it through both of my sister’s pregnancies and births a year ago with no deep questions from my son. This coming from the boy who needs to know how the toaster works, what causes hurricanes, how you wire a light fixture, why God makes things die, and begs “please just explain it to me mom,” when I say that something is too complicated for a second grader to understand. Up until now I have managed to give him the facts of “the facts of life,” without really going into the details of those facts. My mother always said, “Answer their questions and nothing more. Most kids are looking for a specific answer and not the whole process of things.” She loves to remind me that in the middle of her explaining the birds and the bees to me, I looked up at her and asked for a peanut butter sandwich.

So, I have tried to answer the specific questions that my son has asked. It only takes one egg and one sperm to make a baby. There are thousands of other sperm that die off, but one lucky one gets in and fertilizes the egg and that starts the baby. He seemed content with this, especially since we also had 11x14 glossy colored pictures to look at of a sperm breaking through a little egg. It's almost like Star Wars, he said. Yep, I answered, pretty close.

I even mused with my husband the other night, “Aren’t you at all surprised that our son hasn’t asked us how this baby got inside me?” I’m not sure the thought really occurred to him...but after a moment he conceded that it was a bit shocking. So it shouldn’t have been a surprise to me, when after dinner one evening, my son hit me with the question while still chewing on the last of his last pierogies.

“So mom, after you have your first baby, what happens to all those little mechanical pieces if they die?”
“What mechanical pieces?” I ask, wondering if this has anything to do with Star Wars.
“You said that it only takes one of those little things…”
“Sperm?”
“Yeah, those, you said it only takes one to go into that ball..”
“Egg.”
“Yeah, well, if it only takes one what happens to all the other little sperm?”
“Well, they die off inside the mother’s body.”
“Well, then if they die off, how do women have other babies after they have the first one?”

Aha. Here it was. The pieces were starting to come together. Where was my husband? Why am I always alone when I’m hit with the sex questions?

“Well,” I answer, trying to traverse this ground carefully, not wanting to reveal too much too soon and yet still answer his question, “When those die off, then… mommies get more a little later, and then those die off and then we get more, kind of like that.” I turned around in the kitchen and continued to put away the dinner dishes, (cringing) hoping this explanation would stick without any further examination on his part. No luck.

“So, are you going to have a baby every year?”
“No,” I almost shout. Are you kidding?
“So, how do mommies get more in them? And why don’t they have babies every year? You’re confusing me,” he said tritely.

I was pretty sure that I was confusing him. In fact, I was trying to confuse him a little, because I’m not really sure that he’s ready to know all the finer details of how babies are made. In reality, I’m not ready for him to know the finer details. And now not only do I need to explain the birds and the bees, but also the finer points of how one controls how many pregnancies they have. It’s a lot to order, especially since there are some things I’m still figuring out at 34.

“Don’t you want a peanut butter sandwich or something?” I ask him. He looked at me like I had lost my mind; clearly we had just finished dinner. “Drink your milk and go find your father,” I told him.

Thankfully, he busied himself with homework, legos and reading about sharks for the rest of the evening—things a second grader is supposed to be concerned with—so the questions were put aside. I know they aren’t forgotten. Those questions will surface again, probably when my husband isn’t around and I’ll be faced with a new one this time; “Why didn’t you ever tell me the answer the last time I asked about how those mechanical things get inside the mommies?” Sigh.