Hormone Hell At My House

I've always been a fairly emotional person, the type who enjoys both a deep belly laugh and a good cry at a movie. But as I approach middle age (kicking & screaming), I've noticed that my ups & downs have been more extreme. Being put on hold by customer service can get my blood boiling, landing a gig makes me want to whoop & holler, a rude remark by one of my kids plunges me into despair that I'm a horrid mother. And at 12 and 15, the boys are in their own hormonal maelstroms, so our house is a tempest of emotional outbursts. (I asked my mother how she handled us during her own perimenopause, and she oh-so-helpfully pointed out that when she was my age, I'd been out of college for several years, my brother was writing his doctoral dissertation, and my sister was on her first divorce. Thanks, mom.)

I guess the one advantage of this period of upheaval is that I'm truly looking forward to full menopause. (I want to be like Diane Keaton in Something's Gotta Give; when Jack Nicholson's lothario character is ripping off her clothes and pauses to ask what she uses for birth control, she answers, "Menopause", and they get back to business.) And I'm trying to find the humor in it - I decided to add a bit to my comedy show, where I rapidly go through all the various mood swings of a typical day. (When I told my husband about the idea, he said, "Can I write it?")


CONTEST RESULTS - We have our first winner (for submitting an embarrassing story) from "Losing It" who had a whopper of a mom moment in her car . . .
" My daughter was screaming her head off, like only 2 year olds can, so while stopped, I decided to find her sippy cup for her. Unfortunately, it had rolled down by the sliding door and I couldn't reach it. I very quickly ran around to the sliding door...and tried to open it. Much to my dismay, I found that door LOCKED, as was every other door to the vehicle, because I had inadvertently hit the lock button with my elbow while standing there searching for the sippy cup. I ran to a nearby house and asked a lady to call 911. She did, they sent out a sheriff's deputy who called a locksmith. I just shook my head at the deputy and said, "Don't even ask." He didn't."

Losing It wins a free CD - enter your embarrassing mom moments for the next week's giveaway!

Hair today, gone tomorrow?

The other day I was lying with my legs hiked up, chatting with the charming woman who was ripping out my excess pubic hair by the roots, and Jen was telling me a few of her stories as a facialist/waxer (she's thinking of writing a book titled Pimples And Pubes). Apparently I am in the minority, since most of her clients opt for full Brazilians (everything off but a small landing strip), and I was a bit taken aback by how far we've come in our willingness to discuss (and deal with) unwanted body hair.

I'm a nice Jewish girl, so I know from body hair - I had to start shaving my legs at 11, and soon after that the hair on my upper lip started looking undeniably mustache-like. Back then, it wasn't anything I admitted to anyone - I begged my mom to buy me some Jolene Creme Bleach, which I'd seen advertised in a magazine, and ever since then it's been an endless cycle of plucking, shaving, waxing, bleaching, regrowth and repeat. Which I figured would go on forever.

Which would be fine, except why is it that when you DO want hair to grow back, it won't? LIke on that eyebrow I overplucked in high school? Or that one thin patch along my part? Sometimes I want to ask my body hair, How do you KNOW, and why are you torturing me by disappearing where I want you and reappearing in the most embarrassing places? (As I age, I spend more time in front of a magnifying mirror frantically tweezing those weird witch-like strands coming out of my chin.)

At least I've got company in my body-hair-obsession. The boys are both in full-on puberty, which produces numerous discussions of the various physical changes. Recently Ben insisted that he had real pubic hair, and David, who is 14, claimed that Ben, at 11, was too young. Ben pulled down his pants to prove his point, so David pulled down HIS pants to prove he had more. Fortunately, Scott stepped in, saying, "Boys, why are you having such a ridiculous argument?" Then Scott dropped his own pants and announced, "THIS is real pubic hair!"

After an evening like that, I think I'll go back to Jen and have some more hair waxed off - it's more relaxing!

Red Hot Mama

It happened again today – I was in a room with several women “of a certain age” (too young for Medicare, too old to text proficiently) and one of them said, “Is it hot in here or is it just me?” Everyone started commiserating about her hot flashes, and I started wondering if we’re not overstating it a bit. I mean, I wake up in the middle of the night once in awhile feeling a bit clammy, but from what I’ve read, only a small percentage of women have debilitating symptoms – and yet to hear them talk, every single one of us over 35 is spending every moment of every day and night sweating uncontrollably. Apparently perimenopause (which didn’t even exist 20 years ago) lasts 15 years . . . ?

It reminds me of being a teenager when most of my friends had started their periods – they took pride in complaining about their hideous cramps, and I, as a late bloomer, felt totally left out of the club. I actually resorted to borrowing nickels once a month because, “You know”! (Okay, even if I weren’t discussing menopausal symptoms, I just dated myself – how long has it been since tampons cost a nickel?) Once I finally started, I realized that sure, cramps happened occasionally, but not nearly as often or as universally as the other girls claimed, in their zeal to fit in.

Or maybe it’s more like the first time I got high, my sophomore year of college (yeah, I was a late bloomer here too). I was so intent on figuring out exactly what I was feeling, I took notes and kept wondering (and writing), “Is this it? I don’t know if I just feel weird or if I’m really high, nahh, I don’t think anything is really happening, although gee, for some strange reason I’m really hungry and my mouth feels like it’s full of cotton.” Likewise, I keep wondering, Is this an actual hot flash?, when actually, it's just hot!

Maybe all of us are going through the same doubts – is this really it? – and figure, what the heck, it’s fun to commiserate and to be part of the gang. Besides, it’s even more fun to complain about hot flashes and to hear someone say, But you’re way too young for menopause. Meanwhile I can look forward to the real thing (and the end of cramps!)

"Today I am a man"

Those are the cliche words from barmitzvah speeches - which David didn't actually say - and of course it seems ridiculous to regard a 13-year-old boy as a man, but at what point does he make that transition? With girls it's easy to point to the day she starts her period, but boys don't have any milestone that specific. Is it his first shave? his first nocturnal emission? his first paycheck? For us, the turning point may be the fact that over the past 2 months, David has become taller than I am, seemingly overnight. For a couple of weeks we were the same height, and suddenly, I'm wearing 2 inch heels and looking up at him. I realize that many mothers go through this when their sons are 12 or even younger, but it still feels like a major transition. And naturally I've got 2 boys on opposite ends of the spectrum - David is a 'late bloomer', and Ben had underarm hair (and the accompanying body odor) when he was 9.

This is yet another instance where my mom can claim Mother Nature is having her revenge on me (just like when David was a preschooler and turned out to be as picky an eater as I'd been). She dealt with 2 daughters at dramatically different developmental stages - I'm the oldest and didn't need a bra til I was 17, whereas my sister, 3 years younger, was a C cup in 7th grade. I worried for years that I'd never have a period and I'd be barren forever; two months after I finally started (at 15), my sister had her first period and promptly announced she wanted a hysterectomy.

Dad had read an article encouraging fathers to treat the onset of menses as a special occasion, so he announced he'd take us each out for a fancy brunch after we'd 'become a woman'. (Of course, this was when I was 9 - it was a LONG wait!, but worth it.) Nancy, on the other hand, decided it was disgusting (she had decided she couldn't leave the house, because everyone would "know"), so she informed Dad that brunch would have to wait until menopause (which is, naturally, sneaking up on her faster than it is on me, according to our recent comparison of hot flashes.)

I love the idea of celebrating my boys' development, but I still haven't figured out a logical occasion. David's hebrew teacher encouraged us to commemorate the bar mitzvah the way his mother had: "Son, in the eyes of Jewish law, you are now an adult. Here's how to do your laundry" - but that's not quite it. I guess I'll wait til they get driver's licenses and can drive me to brunch?, but in the meantime, I'll enjoy the fact that David actually does his laundry - occasionally - and I'll keep shopping for higher heels!