May I Have My PMS in Peace, Please?

After charting every rise and fall of my temperature for the twelve months leading up to Lucas' long-awaited conception, it amazes me that I am largely oblivious to my cycle these days. I circle the day on my calendar, and then at some point, the calendar flips to the next month and that little circle falls out of my awareness completely.

So when everyday life becomes exceedingly difficult and I begin to act like an emotional lunatic, when I look in the mirror and wonder dejectedly how I've aged fifteen years in a week, when everyone, especially my family, annoys me beyond belief, when I have absolutely NOTHING to wear and my hair won't cooperate, and this is reason enough for a crying jag or a temper tantrum, I am oddly surprised a day or so later when I find it's time to mark that circle on my calendar again. "Oh ... hormones… of course," I think as I reach for the box in my bathroom cupboard.

The calm returns. Sanity is restored.

My husband (who has witnessed this more times than a man deserves) suggested that I come up with some sort of early warning system so he'll know it's just my period and not the end of the world as we know it. It's a good idea.

Here's why it's an even better idea. Guess who else was wigging out during my most recent bout of premenstrual mania?

That's right … my über-sensitive son.

Newsflash!!! If you have a sensitive, indigo, crystal or otherwise intuitive child, be prepared to share your PMS.

It's actually rather funny looking back on it, although I was ready to commit myself over the past few days. Here I was, impatient, annoyed, overwhelmed by the choice of oatmeal or eggs for breakfast, and there was Lucas, standing between my legs everywhere I went, (yes, between my legs - how's that for a hint?) whining and falling into crying fits for no apparent reason. Both of us looked to Toby in despair. "Help! We're driving each other crazy!"

The duet hit its peak yesterday at Seaport Village, following Lucas' ill-advised consumption of some chocolate frozen yogurt. I, on the other hand, had not had an afternoon snack. This was a disaster waiting to happen. The sugar hit his bloodstream while we were waiting in line for some water. Lucas crept away from me and grabbed a chair from someone's table and began pushing it across the courtyard. I called after him to stop. He looked back at me and then began to push the chair in earnest through the crowds and toward the sea wall. I dashed out after him, carrying my wallet and the water I'd just stolen.

When I reached him, he knocked over the chair and began to run. I got a hold of his wrist while he writhed and screamed, and I struggled to keep him from knocking his head on the ground. Meanwhile, I tried to right the chair and return it, still holding the water and the wallet. Finally I managed to pick him up, struggling and screaming, and we returned to the little cabana from which I'd taken the water.

Now I was at the end of an even longer line, and Lucas's maniacal screams were bouncing between the floor tiles and the roof, deafening everyone in the building. He was sitting in my arms with his knees pulled up to my chest, trying to push away with his feet. Then he began to swing his arms and biff me upside the head. Everyone must have been staring – I wouldn't know. I was too busy trying to figure out how to restrain his arms without ripping them off of his maddening little body. The manager approached me at the end of the line, quickly took my payment and said, "You're good! You're good! Go ahead! You can go!"

I got him outside, steam coming out of my ears, threw down the water and my wallet, plunked Lucas into the stroller, and wrestled him down to get the safety belts fastened. I pulled the shade over the top of his screams and sank into the chair, while everyone in the world stared at me like I was the worst mother in the world, and Lucas was little Mr. Demon Spawn. It was all I could do to keep from crying.

As his crying wound down, he asked me through his tears, "Are you happy?" (This again!) "No!" I answered sharply. "No, I'm not happy right now. I'm very, very frustrated and angry!" His screaming resumed at a higher pitch.

At the time, I thought it was the sugar for him, and afternoon hunger for me, short-circuiting our fuses. Now I can see it was a culmination of a few days of growing irritability on both our parts, pushing at one another to this breaking point.

When the screaming was over and he had calmed down, he had another question to ask me. "Do you love me, Mommy?" I picked him up, hugged him, and told him I always love him, even when he's throwing fits and I'm angry or frustrated.

I assumed that he knew this, though really, I'm not sure why I should think it's a given to him. He's trying to work out the difference between my happiness and my love, and he needed it spelled out for him, just so he was clear.

It's a good reminder about being responsible with my emotions, PMS-induced or otherwise. It's not just me they're affecting.