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. 

______________________________________________

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

Super-Glue and the Urge to Extricate

My darling girls:

I was thinking about Super-Glue this weekend.  When you get Super-Glue on your fingers and then press them together, they stick, right?  What's the next thing you do?

I don't know what you do - maybe you are calm, cool, and collected in the face of fingers stuck together.  What do I do?  I pull them apart.  I don't just try to pull them apart - my fingers panic and they pull apart all by themselves, no matter how hard I try to stop them.  In fact, because my fingers are so intent on being apart, they don't really care if they have to tear themselves up to do it.  A little bit 'o thumb on my forefinger; a little smidge of forefinger on my thumb. 

This has me thinking about human nature and what happens to us when faced with uncomfortable changes.  And, it has me thinking about how I personally react to that feeling. 

As I've grown, educated myself, experienced more, and take more calculated risks with my life, my first response to being trapped isn't panic anymore.  More often, I shake my head a little, roll my eyes, and think, "Fuck me!"  (Yes, Virginia, I do use the "F" word occasionally.) Then I figure out how much danger I'm in, what my options are, and extricate myself.  (Lately, I'm also thinking about what the experience will look like in blog-form.  Go figure!)

I suppose you might think, then, that you grow older and wiser, and therefore handle things better, but I don't really think that's always true.  I also think that handling things well is situation-dependent.  Anything you haven't thought through or experienced before can tend to bring on that same sense of panic.  And of course, there's the Super-Glue factor - the idea that a permanent change to something you've taken for granted all your life is worthy of the most volatile reaction.

So, then I wonder whether I am now too restrained when it comes to extricating myself from difficult situations.  Have I evolved so much as a human being that I no longer have that natural adrenaline, that response to get away when a threat appears?  And why, in the face of something so benign as Super-Glued fingers, wouldn't I choose to just go upstairs, get the acetone, and calmly correct the situation?  Why do glued fingers inspire such drastic human response?

I think in my mid-forties, I've come to trust myself well enough to know I can handle just about any situation.  There isn't really much in life that remains mysterious to me if I'm interested in it, and I'm not afraid to explore things to which I once would have fearfully shut my eyes.  And, having seen the circle of life play itself out so many times around me, I know that the worst possible result of any difficult situation is death, and that the chances of it are unlikely under most circumstances. 

So, going back to the start of this dicussion - why do glued fingers still make me automatically want to pull them apart, in spite of the damage it causes?  Is it because I know the pain and potential blood involved is survivable?  Is it because the feeling of losing control over a lifelong relationship with my fingers is so uncomfortable that I have to get them back to normal, even if it means a painful process to get there? 

I don't  know the answers (yet), but I hope you'll take this away: 

Educate yourselves on everything you can.  Knowledge and experience help you evaluate difficult situations and react more appropriately.  And, know that it isn't necessary to hurt yourself to get out of a sticky mess, but it helps to know that if you do, you'll survive. 

With love,

Mommy 

 

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:

_________________

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.