Letters to My Girls

Why This Mommy is Losing Her Mind!

One of the reasons I started blogging was to commiserate with other menopausal mommies.  I sort of expected them to come out of the woodwork once I let the secret out that, hey, it's OK that your uterus is shriveling up and you're still changing diapers! 

Let's get rid of the boring factoids right up front:  Menopause is defined as the cessation of menstruation which usually happens to women in their late 40's.  For the lucky few, the process begins in the early 40's and in its entirety, can last, well, years. 

Even luckier are those (that would be me) who start the process early after just getting over the hormonal chaos caused by child birth.  Yes - menopause complicated by small children.  Joyful! 

You're going to hear more about this in the news as we career women who put off childbearing so we could "do it all" before "settling down" become more plentiful and start becoming the poster children for the condition.  Yes - I called it a condition, and condition it is. 

I don't know how other women began the process, but I can tell you all the weird things that happened to me:

Truth is, I've always had skin trouble, but was blissfully unaware of it while I was, a) on birth control pills (pre-tubal ligation) and, b) pregnant.  During that ten-year period, my hormones were balanced and while I had scars from years past, I didn't develop much that was new.  Over the past three years, I'm once again struggling like a teenager with over-active oil glands and breakouts.  I had to completely change my routine and I still haven't found any real solutions.  And yes, I've tried everything. 

I started having short-term memory problems, like the day I specifically left the house with kids in tow to mail a letter.  Got all the way to the wrong destination (ended up at the mall - go figure) and then suddenly remembered why I went out in the first place.  No letter to be found, and angry kids in the backseat, I drove home to find the letter perched on the counter, evidently right where I left it.  It could have been an alien abduction, but I think it was just my faulty hormone-soaked brain. 

I also used to be a really good speller.  REALLY good.  So good, that I was the go-to girl for all-things-writing.  Suddenly, I was writing emails and would find myself unable to recognize a word - and I'm not talking about big fancy words such as "snuffaluffagus".  I'm talking about words like, oh, I don't know, "out" or "like" or "crazy."  I would write a word, look at it with head cocked, and not really know if that was the word I wanted or if it was spelled correctly.  Then, I started making spelling and grammar errors - the really bad kind that make you look like a total idiot if you're a writer/editor.  Things like using "their" instead of "they're" or using the word "asses" which frankly made me look like one.  There was the word "philisophical" (my friend the rocket-scientist had a ball with that one..."Cream cheese?" he asked.)  The other day I very thoughtfully and methodically wrote the phrase "right of passage" even with my grammar alarm ringing loudly in my brain.   

I literally thought I was losing my mind.  And, hoping, praying, that I wasn't losing it to early onset brain necrosis due to the infiltration of Amazonian worms, found out from my doc that I was "entering that stage of life..."  Hater. 

I'm also exhausted.  I know - it could just be that I run around after two small kids every day, and awaken to crying a few times each night.  The thing is, this is the kind of exhaustion that makes a fire in the living room a non-event, if you know what I mean.  I'm waiting for the day when the kiddos figure this one out and begin asking for all sorts of favors when my eyes glaze over and they see that I'm no longer able to discern the difference between the words "toy" and "boy." 

I can't remember who anyone is anymore.  I can look at someone I'm quite certain I know and have no idea where that person fits into my life.  This is really a drag at school when I can't remember the names of children or mommies.  It gets worse.  The other day, I found myself introducing my daughter to "Tommy's mom" when she shook her head and whispered to me, "No - I'm Ellen's mom."  Rather than just believe her and move away quickly to cover, I found myself just about to insist to her that, yes, she was Tommy's mom. 

I've also arrived at the "turning into my mother" phase of menopause.  My neighbor-two-doors-down was standing on her roof the other day cutting branches.  I heard myself yell across the entire distance in a disapproving, sing-song rant, "What [the hell] are you doing up there?"  It must have been one very impressive motherly moment because she came over later that evening to let me know she survived.  Oh, the horror of it!  

By the way, I'm just about to move into the "discussing minutia of illnesses" phase, so you better steer clear of me if you have a runny nose or a tummy ache.   

I know - you're waiting for me to talk about the really fun parts of menopause like constant hot flashes, night sweats and the "permanent cessation of menses."  Don't rush me - I've only just started on the odyssey of physical symptoms, and at any moment I might burst out with a slew of fascinating facts about sweat. 

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Tell me your mommy menopause stories!  What are you experiencing?  Do you feel like you're losing your mind?  Comment below! 

Grocery Cart Rage: The Newest SAHM Affliction Affecting Millions of Mommies

I've been working really hard lately on my issues with grocery shoppers.  I used to love grocery shopping and for awhile I even went with my best girlfriend who lived in the same apartment complex I did.  She would show me foods that I had never tried or give me cooking tips (she's a chef) and I would teach her how to dip vinegar potato chips into carmel sauce.  (OK - I"m clearly not a chef, but don't scoff until you try it!)  My girlfriend moved away, we both got married and had kids.  She's now a brilliant shopper and cook; I'm just a frustrated blogger. 

Anyway, now that grocery shopping is a utilitarian pursuit and not an artistic one, I want to get in, get out, and have a relatively painless experience.  I want to glide down the aisles and have the items I want just pop into my cart, pay for themselves, and well - while I'm at it, let's have them delivered and put away.  Then I won't have to go at all! 

It isn't that I don't like shopping, it's that I have to deal with all the shoppers.  Let's face it - we all get a little bit goofy at the grocery store.  You too?  Or, should I say, you too!  We all get focused on what it is we want, what we have to remember, and we get sidelined a great deal with holiday displays, new items, things that aren't where they're supposed to be, and small children.  In our get-it-over-with approach, we sometimes forget to be courteous and considerate in the aisles. 

To deal with my shopper frustration, I've come up with a game!  I have my own little type-list for grocery store shoppers that I use to de-stress and amuse myself.  I spot a shopper down an aisle, and try to predict just what type she (or he) falls into before I have to face her.  Here's my list:

The Snacker:  You can peg this one because he doesn't have a cart; he's just there for a snack.  He mills around the sample displays, and if he's got the kids that day while mom is off doing something else, where better to get lunch?   This is also the guy who has to get a taste of every ice cream in the case before he makes his choice. 

Frazzled Mommy:  This gal comes in hoping there isn't one of those ridiculous red plastic car carts you have to stuff the kids into so they can bite, pinch, and yell at each other the whole trip.  The carts have no turning radius and are double-wide, causing everyone in the aisles to run for their lives when they see you coming, lest they get smashed into the soup cans by some well-intentioned preschool driver.  (Yes, I know the kids don't control the cart, but if I do run into a little old lady, she doesn't know that, and will always forgive my pre-schooler, whereas she might sue me for putting a dent in her walker.)  Mom has circles under her eyes and really doesn't care what you think, so running is really the only solution. 

The Family Affair:  I'm not talking mom, dad, and kids, here. I'm talking aunts, uncles, grandparents, and second cousins.  The whole family gathers around a product and debates the price, packaging, potential date of use, and who will get the biggest share.  Don't even try to get past these people - they've rented the space and you just have to wait. 

The Stalker:  This is the woman who goes down every aisle you do, only the opposite direction, and manages to stop her cart in front of all the same products you want to buy.  Strange, but true. 

The Cart Dragger:  The one who pulls the cart from the front, trailing the back behind her.  When she stops to look at something, the back of her cart always lands in the middle of the aisle.   Why?  Because you can't control a shopping cart from the front!

The Bender:  No -not alcohol.  This is the one who bends at the waist to look at something down low, taking a step back as he does so.  His butt is too far into the middle of the aisle to pass him.  These folks travel in twos and create butt obstacle courses in the aisles. 

The Selective Hearer:  You know the one--she can't hear you say "excuse me" even if she's looking straight at you and her cart is 90 degrees to the aisle. 

The Mis-Counter:  This is the person who counts 25 separate bottles of Gatorade as one item so he can go through the 15-item express lane. 

The Crazy Couponer:  This is an addiction.  She clips coupons, has 40 of them at the register, most of which she technically can't use because she didn't bring her reading glasses to see the fine print, shakes uncontrollably as she watches the savings add up, and then argues the price of any in-store items that don't scan properly. 

The Noodler:  I live in a college town.  We have lots of noodle bowls here.  Chinese noodles.  Mac 'n Cheese.  Spaghetti-os.  Glazed, sleepless look.  Three friends trailing behind talking about booze and football.  Need I say more? 

The Performer:  Bluetooth in her ear, phone always on, and for whatever reason, she only gets as many groceries as she can hold in her two hands.  She talks on her phone the whole time, loudly, and makes sure you know she's in charge.   Just when the juicy part of the conversation starts, she starts to whisper so you can't even get a little thrill out of her oh-so-exciting life. 

The PMS'er:  I can spot this one from two aisles away.  She's shopping through a fog of bloat, bitchiness, and cravings.  She gets to the checkout counter and realizes she only has cheese balls, Coke, Twinkies, and a copy of Martha Stewart Living in her cart.  In her embarrassment, she gets even bitchier, so don't confront this woman in the parking lot. 

The "I Can't Walk Another Step...":  He either leaves his cart in the middle of the lot or gets 20 feet away from the cart-return, pushes it, and walks away,  thinking it will roll right in.  In both cases, the cart rolls, gains speed, turns, and crashes into the front side-panel of whatever car is in the way. 

I guess what's interesting about all of these categories is that I've fallen into one or the other myself pretty much every time I shop.  I've found myself mesmerized by vast selections of toothpaste, suddenly hear "excuse me" from behind, and realize my cart is in the way, my butt is pointed right into the aisle, my children have disappeared in the plastic sports-car, and I don't like the price on any of the tubes.  And, Pre-Menstrual Shopper?  If you re-arrange the letters, it's spells "Peri-Menopausal Shopper" and might just describe.....me. 

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Tell me your shopping stories!  I want to hear your shopping pet-peeves. Leave me a comment! 

 

Peri-Menopause, Brains & Boobs

by Lorie Fuller

We joined the YMCA at the beginning of the summer, partly to give the kiddos access to the pool and some activities, partly to give me a chance to get physical.  I termed it, "The Naked Y," because there's a bright-shiny-new-pool with bright-shiny-new-bikini-mommies.  Oh, and the yoga girls.  But, that's another story.   

I blew the dust off my active-wear drawer and shook out a few old athletic bras and some spandex butt-boosters.  You can tell your old workout clothes are in bad shape when the elastic crackles like breakfast cereal in milk.  You can't expect disintegrating elastic to hold in all the jiggly bits and keep the boobs from getting, errr, too far ahead of you. (Those of you over a 36D will understand what I mean.)

So, I went shopping at the local discount-designer place and began flipping through the fitness clothing.  Everything was sort-of so-so.  Typical sports bras and tops, sort of shapeless and clearly made for someone less amply endowed than I.  But then, I found this:

Having once been quite stylish and believing I have good taste, not to mention knowing I had years of shopping experience under my belt, I immediately recognized that this particular top was unique.  Yes - it was different, stylish, and I thought how clever it was that the bra part was on the outside.  Madonna.  I would be Mama Madonna around those skinny beach bitches.  I wondered, "Gee, do you suppose you get better support with a style that has the bra on the outside?"  I didn't have time to try it on, but tossed it into my basket, purchased it, and wore it the next day. 

Yes, I was wearing the latest style of sports bra and I was, well, not to pat my own back, but HOT!  I could tell all the bikini-mamas were impressed.  They would probably run right out to the store to try to find one too, right after they finished suntanning themselves into skin-cancer oblivion.  Ha!  I....I was Workout Girl!  I was leading the pack! 

I wore my new garment, oh, three or so times in the weeks that followed, back straight, chest out, lookin' gooood. 

Then, yesterday, I was doing the laundry.  And, out of the washing machine came this:

Wait!  Had I bought two athletic tops, and if so, why had a I purchased something so lifeless, without shape, without style?  Maybe this wasn't mine at all and....oh no! 

Then it hit me.  I approached the top, slowly, so as not to alarm the poor thing, pulled the neckline out very carefully, and looked down into the garment.  NO!  No, no, nononnonononononono!  It can't be! 

It was my stylish new sports bra!  Inside out!  Wait - no - it wasn't inside out.  It was....the way it was supposed to be.  Oh....my....God! OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod!

No wonder everyone had been looking at my boobs! It wasn't because they were stylishly perky and fabulously reigned-in.  It was because I was wearing the damn bra inside out. 

Disclaimer that should have been on the tag:  Please don't wear this garment like a complete idiot should the stocking clerk accidentally put the top inside-out on the hanger.  There are no side seams on this garment. When turned inside-out, the bra seams go to the inside of the garment, and the tag that is printed directly on the fabric is in ink that blends in so you can't see it.  This makes it appear as though the garment is right-side-out even when it isn't.  Just say "No!" to sports-bra foolishness and only wear as directed.  Not responsible for mental distress or injury due to mis-use of garment and subsequent hazing by bikini-mommies.  Peri-menopausal women should consult with a physician before wearing this garment. 

Here's the back view:

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Lots of odd things have been happening to me these past months.  I can't spell anymore.  I have no short-term recollection.  I have to take reading glasses with me everywhere because I can no longer read any font smaller than 14 pica. I can't open medicine bottles anymore.  I'm angry as hell.  I'm headachy, hot, and exhausted.  Only about 20% of my brain is working.  All, according to my doc, due to the onset of peri-menopause.   

I think there should be a Peri-Menopause Foundation.  I think you should be able to get one of those helper-dogs when you enter peri-menopause.  Or an interpreter - someone who can see tags on garments and remind you what words mean.  Or maybe a stylist - someone who will tell you honestly when you're about to make a damn fool of yourself at the Naked-Y, in front of all the scantily-clad, 25-yr-old, mommies. 

Middle-Age, Near Vision, and Secrets Between Friends

by Lorie Fuller

A friend and I were talking the other day and she admitted a secret to me.  I remember having the same secret a few years ago when "it" happened to me.  It came just after my optometrist told me that "these things happen" in middle-age.  MIDDLE-AGE?  No, I don't think so. 

As it turns out, middle-age starts in your mid-forties, and one definitive sign is the sudden inability to read the side of a yogurt container at the grocery store.  I'm sure that it happened over a period of years, but it seemed to me that it was quite sudden.  Reading a magazine or a medicine bottle became impossible, even with the glasses or contact lenses that had served me well over the years.  Trying to find a size or washing instructions on clothing tags became a challenge.  Making out the difference between a "5" and a "3" was impossible. 

The funny thing was, I actually went to get reading glasses before I really thought I was terminally vision-challenged.  I'm not sure what I thought, but getting the readers seemed like entering a right-of-passage before my time.  In fact, I was embarrassed to admit to my eye doctor I had gone that step without checking with her first.  Let's just say, she wasn't the least bit shocked. 

Now that I have a half-dozen pairs sprinkled judiciously around the house, I'm still not completely comfortable with the concept.  I don't really think of myself as being old enough to need reading glasses, yet my eyes betray me that direction every day.

Besides my annoyance at having to pick up a pair of glasses every time I want to read something, I think the saddest part about losing my near vision is that I'm missing some of the details in my kids' faces, their little dimpled hands, their beautiful hair, their perfect little belly buttons.  My daughters are better at pointing out details in nature, books, plays...then I am.  I can't help them appreciate some of those tiny details in life that take two good eyes to see.  Parenting at this age has its benefits, to be sure, but vision loss isn't one of them. 

On a positive note, I can no longer see some of the fine lines, skin imperfections, and little hairs that used to plague me in the mirror each day, and no one else my age can, either, unless they cheated and got Lasik.  I wish they were actually gone, but I know they aren't. 

So, my dear friend with the secret - I do understand exactly what you're going through, and I won't say your name here so that you can manage the transition in your own time.  I'm just glad I can be here to listen, and commiserate.