The Hormone Mayhem

The Universe has a twisted sense of humor, although I can't say I haven't been warned. Physically, I know I should have had kids at the bodily ripe age of sixteen. My energy was robust, my nocturnal habits meshed congruently with a newborn - sleep all day, stay awake all night! We all had an attachment to a bottle of sorts. We created some scatty messes that we needed help cleaning up. If I had children then, I would have been in my late 20's, when they began their pubescent journey. Like them, I would have slid onto snowboards stealthily, traversed with my own ripstick and text with tenacity. However, I believed that I needed years of therapy and to be more grounded within life's whims before I could navigate parenthood. An honorable, steadfast notion, if it weren't for the small print in the Parenting manual that ostensibly never made it into my hands. No one happened to mention Menopause might be a bit of a mired muck when it met with adolescent angst.

This is what it looks like these days:

My boys, both eleven, hastily speeding into teenage-hood, scrutinize the mirror for any budding follicles on their face. So do I. Our aims, opposing. They love to sleep in. I'd just like to sleep. Even once in a while would be nice. They devour pizza, double bacon cheeseburgers, vats of ice-cream, Andre-the-Giant size Foot-long subs, a calf's ration of milk per day. I watch my waist un-waste. I devour flaxseed oil for hot flashes, black cohosh for my darkened days, and Ginko for my geriatric memory. I am about to embark on slathering progesterone cream, so I don't lose my mind any further and pull a postal trip.

While my kids verge on having nocturnal emissions, I already nocturnally emit puddles of sweat onto my exhausted sheets. I'm experiencing a sort of teenage mid-life cycle, in reverse. While they amass Testosterone, my progesterone and estrogen, bid farewell. I am fully ready to pursue my writing career, but alas, my memory bank has decided to play Bernie Madoff and abscond with any semblance of language acquisition and recall.

We share mood swings, like a seesaw, I , on the irritated side, they, on the belligerent one. They begin to notice girls, work on their abs and pecs, wake up with a protruding body part pointing North; I notice that I'd rather lie on the couch, than jump in the sack, my body parts definitely point south. It seems we are gale forces blowing in opposite directions, except when we turn around and collide in midair.

But there are some exquisite everyday respites. We do love to watch the screen together. I, personally, love anything that has to do with being prone and watching other people sing, dance and experience the agony of the feet, like in the Olympics, or in "So You think You Can Dance." They just love TV. We load our dinner plates with protein and sprawl on the family room's sectional. Later, we get close vying for the fuzziest blanket, as we discuss what Simon says on American Idol. We dissect anything on the show that brings up sexism, racism, and homophobia, and all this is done before the 10:00 o'clock news. Not bad for an attempt at repairing the world.

Because beauty and order are more important when one is 40 plus than at 16, I've taught my boys about shared communal responsibility, and they get up and clear the dishes and food. They load the dishwasher, and not just their own dish. These days they actually ask, "Do you need help with anything else?".

And they offer comic relief to this peri-menopausal woman, who needs it like a daily dose of bioidentical hormones. Although, they think of me as a hippy, process-loving, and a bit out-of-it parent, they know they have license to be goofy around me. They don my bras and dresses and take up the challenge of getting me out of Grumpyland. All I can say is: "Thank you Universe for making laughter available at any age."