Inside the Mind of a Mom, who has PMS

Crazy housewife with kitchen tools

I’m alone in the kitchen, making lunch.

My face is sporting the expression commonly referred to as: Resting Bitch Face. Although, mine isn’t really resting; my forehead is in on the action, too. I am all scrunched up, like a pug. A confrontational (or perhaps constipated) pug.

In the distance I can hear them. They’re calling my names:

“BABE!”

“MOMMY!”

“MOOOOOOOOM!”

My face is speaking what my mouth isn’t saying although, I’m not sure what my problem is. What the hell is up my ass, anyway? And, what’s wrong with my face?

Ahhhhhhh. It dawns on me. And with a quick feel, I’m relieved to discover that, yes, my boobs are in fact sore. I exhale with relief as my sneer turns into a half-assed smirk. I’m very pleased to know that my irritability is due to hormones which means my desire to flee, will soon pass.

This is good news. Very good news, indeed.

I’ll just ride out the next few days. I’ll aim not to ruffle or to get ruffled. And before I know it, I’ll get my joy back!

In the meantime, I’m confident that the agitated beast, within, can be kept at bay. As long as I remember she’s in there and I don’t get caught off guard. (This is the challenge.)

“MOOOOOOOOOOM!”

It’s only for a few days… But, I have to say, this inner bitch really is relentless. She’s completely kicked my sense of humour to the curb and morphed me into a crone-like version of myself. She does this at the same time. Every month.

So, as to not hinder the happiness of my family members, I will do my best to avoid lashing out.

Just. Lay. Low. This will be my goal.

“MOOOOOOOOOOM!”

Why do they insist on shouting from across the house?!

If I can just keep my moods bubbling here under the surface, that would be best. My family shouldn’t have to suffer, right? As long as they don’t leave excessive messes around for me to clean, we’ll be good!

Lunches are made and now … off to shift the laundry. Grrrrrrrrrr. Who left a Kleenex in their pocket?!

Yes, my irritation will linger and poke and prod (unbeknownst to the rest of them) if everyone could just….. I really fucking hate Kleenex!

But, as I was saying: it’s only for a few days so I’m going to do my best to tame this inner….

“MOOOOOOOOOOOM!”

“MOM!”

“I said MOM, first!”

Little feet are stampeding their way down the stairs. They’re coming for me! And they’re bickering. I’ve got Kleenex mixed into all my darks and CLINK I just heard my husband leave his dirty bowl on the counter….

“MOOOOOOOOM! She hit me!”

Maybe we should leave town, my inner bitch and I.

Just for a few days…

*Fills a bag with tampons, chocolate, and sweatpants. Sneaks out side door*

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A Mother’s Journey from Slobbery to Sobbery

If this was me, I’d be in my element….

image

But it isn’t me, at all. The truth is: I have a pre-disposition to slobbery. Reason being, when I was a teenager I was actually a slob. My clothes lived all over my room, wherever they landed basically. It was a treacherous sea of clothing and shoes, in there, and visitors entered at their own risk.

After years of pleading, my poor mom finally gave up and asked of me but one request: Keep the door closed!

Now, I’d love to say that this all changed when I went off to university but I’d be lying. My four housemates will attest to the fact that I really didn’t pull my weight. When the chores were divvied up, I was always given the least demanding tasks like sweeping the laundry room floor. While my more responsible peers took on the biggies like cleaning the kitchen and the living room. I think they knew that I was shitty at cleaning and they wanted the job done right.

I’m fairly confident, however, as we’re all still friends, that what I lacked in domestic prowess I made up for in ridiculousness and what house of university friends doesn’t appreciate that? I played a mean leg guitar, my Dr. Evil impression was tops and my Rat Face (which, as it sounds, is an impression of a rat’s face) is still alive and well and has even been passed down to our kin.

It wasn’t until I lived in my own little apartment for one that I gained a bit of house pride, but only a bit. I was hardly there.

Fast forward 18 years… I’m now living in a house of five again, only this time I’m in charge of tidying, cleaning and organizing the entire fucking thing! Talk about a learning curve. I know that by having kids, I signed up for all of this. I think I was a bit naïve, though, as to how much mess they would actually produce and I can’t help but wonder if life would be easier if I was still a slob.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not boasting Show Home status, by any means, but there are times when our house looks pretty damn good- if only for a few precious moments. There are also times when it’s a gigantic mess… And occasionally, amidst that wreckage, I cry…  And |I wonder, is this the slob in me feeling hard done by? I don’t know but I do think that we can all benefit from a good cry every once in a while.

Personally, I find combining oven scrubbing with sobbing, to be very therapeutic.

Allowing myself to cry, doesn’t mean I’m not grateful that I have an oven to cook with, a home to live in and a healthy family to take care of. It just means that sometimes the weight of motherhood just builds up…

Whether we are crying, laughing or sprawled out, zonked, on the couch at the end of the day we, moms, deserve a nice cocktail. And there is no beverage more perfect for a house cleaning, family organizing mom (who used to be a slob) than a Dirty Martini. This is how you make one…

Two Olive Martini Cocktails

The Dirty Martini

Ingredients:

2 oz. vodka or gin

1 oz. Vermouth

A generous splash of olive juice

Green olives

Method:

1. Fill a metal shaker up with ice. Add the vodka (or gin), Vermouth and olive juice.

2. Shake vigorously and strain into a martini glass.

3. Add olives. Just drop them in (if you’re feeling lazy) or put them on a lovely cocktail stick (if you’re feeling classy).

4. Serve to your house cleaning, family organizing mom friends.

TOAST– to dirty ovens, therapeutic tears and all the laughter in between.