My hormones ate the cheese, the housework, and, possibly, the children

Every time I read that some male scientist has proven that PMS does not exist, I must laugh and laugh and laugh....and then sulk. Either that scientist does not live with a woman, has never known any women, or only socializes with those who project sainthood while in company, gnawing their couch pillows and eating their pounds of chocolate in private.

The older I get, the more I am just a mere pawn of my hormones, dust on the wind of my cyclical fate. No,the devil didn't make me do it; the hormones did. They determine my mood, my energy, my libido, my good hair days, my behavior...my appetite for cheese and meat.

Where I am in the cycle means the difference between running out to greet my guy, just home from work, with kisses and cute monikers like Sugar Buns, Sexy Face, and Pumpkin Head, or hiding behind the front door with an iron skillet in hand, cackling like the witch I am.

My bed is my best friend, and I will clothes-line anyone on my way when running to embrace it at 8:30 pm. Every month I begin to yearn anew for one weekend alone to reconnect, a staycation where I stay in it for at least 24 - 72 hours straight. I'm not just TIRED. I am, to quote my mimicking husband, "T-R-D - tarr'd!" Weary to the bone, my southern accent manifests itself in "ow'er" (hour), "toe-lit" (toilet) and "ire'un" (iron). I don't yell at the kids anymore; I holler at them.

Because I am so T-R-D and resentful about it, my ambition to struggle against the constant state of near-collapse in this home vanishes, but, proportionately, the need to complain about it increases. I roll listlessly back and forth on the couch and upbraid, "Look at this mess! How can you guys bear to live in it? Doesn't it bother you?" Then I roll over and read my self-help manual: Half a Month to a New You!

The symptoms have gotten so much worse as I've gotten older; someday they'll be permanent. I blame it, at least in part, on my pregnancies. The first trimester of each drove me to insanity via an inundation of hormones, bringing at least one huge spectacle of which I was the star. I have never fully recovered my equilibrium.

For instance:

1) During my second pregnancy, I spent approximately two hours scream-lecturing my husband on the injustice of this whole "two to tango" business. It may take two to make a sweet bundle of joy, but only one of us will look like all that joy has been stored in our bubbly thighs and then sucked out of our flappy skin through our now enlarged feet. And it's not the ones who care least about and get judged less on their looks - no! Women's bodies are irreversibly stretched, stamped, enlarged and shriveled in the most unseemly way in the most unseemly places.

Men should have various body parts get flabby, wrinkle up or shrink every time they father a child. That's called e-qua-li-ty.

2) During pregnancy with my youngest daughter, I challenged my husband to a fist fight. He did not accept.

3) During my last pregnancy I became crazy jealous of another pregnant woman. She had the audacity to confide in my husband that like me she was eight weeks pregnant. When I found out I told him plainly with officious repetition that I was the only pregnant woman he should EVER care about, and what was she doing broadcasting her pregnancy to some near-stranger anyway? The poor man had to leave the house for a while, because I was so "unreasonable".

I still think I was justified. And I would have challenged that audacious, man-stealing pregnant lady to a fist fight, but I was pooped after yelling at Matthew.

I'll be frank; I became a real Mama Jekyll, Mrs. Hyde. And Mrs. Hyde still comes around once a month for a week or two (gets longer every time). I howl and holler, eat hamburger patties and cheddar cheese a la carte and go on the rampage...then sleep it off, asking for a report post-nap of damage done.

It's looking really bad for menopause. I think I'll buy a lonely mountain cabin in which to stay during my "change of life" until I'm out of the woods, hormonally-speaking. Don't want to scare the grandkids or the neighbors, after all. If PMS is any indication, it's going to be some ride, and I'll be real T-R-D afterwards...but civilized again.

We hope.

A Batman Bed in Heaven, No Violence on TV

My littlest daughter said something very interesting to her tired big sister this morning:

"In heaven you can sleep and sleep and sleep without anyone making any loud noises."

And I thought, Yes! A mother's paradise. Sweeeet! And then I began to plan how long I would slumber before I explore my new, exciting and peaceful home (if I make it; still debatable). But my daughter wasn't done.

"And I'm going to have a Batman bed in heaven. Batman bed, Batman covers, Batman sheets...and I'm going to watch all the Batman shows!"

Aha! And it comes down to this yet again. My big five-year-old who can ride a bike with no training wheels, scale the monkey bars with no support and is soon to embark on her public school journey badly wants to watch superhero shows or movies. Blue and black are her new favorite colors because of her love and admiration for Batman. She dreams about Batman and relates their adventures to the rest of us in the morning. She tells strangers how cool and qualified as superhero Batman is, but her mama won't let her watch Batman - not even the cartoons. And the movies? There is no way in heaven or hell that I will allow my little girl to watch media "entertainment" with so much violence, so many absolutely bizarre and twisted characters. I haven't even subjected myself to the last few; each new one seems to want to outdo the last in graphic violence.

My little girl doesn't understand. I've told her that the movies aren't made for children. I did not tell her that they would give her nightmares and, if she continued to be exposed to such material, would desensitize her to real life tragedy and horror. I did not show her the handout for parents of toddlers and preschoolers from the pediatrician's office that said:

Children should not be allowed to watch shows with violence or sexual behaviors.

I take that to mean cartoons, too. She'll watch the movies someday, perhaps...when she's 18? While she's in grade school, she'll watch what her big brother and sister get to watch after school: PBS. If she wants a superhero, she will learn to appreciate the likes of Word Girl or even the Kratts Brothers of Wild Kratts.

I've heard many people say that children get from things - television, books - what children can understand, but I positively believe that what children see and hear alters their understanding of life, healthy relationships, respect for others, the possibility of peace. To better grasp how the content our kids watch affects their view on life, here's an easy-to-interpret, wonderful and thought-provoking graphic from EducationNews.Org:



Please Include Attribution to EducationNews.org With This Graphic

Mini Cupcakes (recipe guest post by my friend Ignacia)

Pop-cake-like Mini Cupcakes

Ingredients

1. 3 eggs
2. ½ cup vegetable oil
3. 1-cup milk
4. 2/3-cup sugar
5. 1 ½ -cup flour
6. 1 Tbs baking power
7. ¾ cup 2 cocoa powder

You can substitute the cocoa for 2 Tbs vanilla extract OR 2 Tbs orange juice OR just skip it.

Mix and Pour

Mix the first 5 ingredients until they are dissolved (it is ok to over mix so you cannot be found guilty of using a mixer).

Add flour, baking powder and cocoa and mix until fairly smooth.

Pour into pan (I love silicone ones).

§  ¼ cup for cupcakes

§  1 Tbs for mini-cupcakes

Bake at 350 ºF

Cupcakes and layer cake: 20 minutes

Mini-cupcakes:  8 minutes (For mini cupcakes you do not need the pan; just use paper cups, wait until the oven is at 350ºF, pour the batter and put them in the oven quickly)

To make fun treats you can pop in Popsicle sticks (they seem safer than kebob sticks).

Decorate using you imagination
 

For the pictures I used vanilla frosting and one raisin for plain cake and frozen berries for chocolate cake.

For the base I used a shoebox lid cover in foil.

Blogger's note: These pictures are beautiful! My friend did a wonderful job, didn't she? Makes me hungry, though...

I want to say a big, big thank you to my dear friend Ignacia for contributing this post, especially since she knows I am way too lazy to do recipes in this blog (you know, all those pictures and all that cooking while trying to remember to take pictures). She even scouted out what recipes people search most often and came up with cupcakes. She's a good friend, mom and cook (a dynamic trio!), and I really hope she'll come back to inspire us again, not simply to eat, but to bake! Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go and drop by her house to see if any cupcakes are left...

Bon appetit!

My Mom has two feet that are the same size

Today I'm proud to again be published at humorwriters.org . My post in honor of Mother's Day, Stroller Pains, can be found on their site by clicking HERE. Thanks, Teri!

Every year little munchkins at preschool answer simple questions about their mothers, and the teachers put it in a paragraph form and bind it prettily in a book. I always say these pamphlets read like cute little indictments. Read aloud to the whole congregation of moms at Mother's Day Tea, you're supposed to guess which one was written by your child. This year I knew from line one.

My precious Ella's book began thus:

My Mom is 10,ooo years old. She is big tall and she weighs 10 quarters.

Yes, I'm an old soul, probably on my 120th reincarnation. I've already used up a few lives this existence by nursing four kids on demand all night long for YEARS - probably look like I've used up this last reincarnation, too. What I want to know is, should I be shopping at the Big and Tall store? And do I weigh the same as 10 coins or 10 American Quarter horses?

She has brown eyes and brown hair (naturally). Her favorite food is healthy food. Her favorite drink is juice and water. My favorite thing she makes is spaghetti.

My mom likes to keep the house clean and I like to help her clean dishes.

What she no doubt meant was that I like to preach about healthy food while eating chocolate with pretty much every meal and that I like to dream about clean houses. She likes to play in the soapy water while I clean dishes.

When she is with my dad they like to take a nap together and they like to kiss.

That was a bit awkward, read aloud and all, but probably more awkward was my loud exclamation of, "Oh, no!" In giving myself away, what could I do but turn to the assembly and cry with conviction, "Well, who doesn't?"

When the laughter subsided, the book concluded thus:

My mom is prettiest when she wears her red dress with sparkly stars. My favorite thing she wears is her green and blue skirt. I think she is special because I love her. I love her too much! I would tell God that I love her.

I do have a red summer dress with sparkly stars, but I don't have a green and blue skirt and never have had. I would tell God thank you for my Ella and ask him to please help her and big brother Berto to get along.

That big bro Berto also authored a preschooler's book about Mom six years ago. At the time he and mama were going through a big disconnect. He hated preschool and was battling anxiety. I was pregnant with Ella and battling morning sickness. His book was more reserved, more accurate and full of searing honesty. It began thus:

My mom is 27 years old (I was exactly). She is 2 feet tall (not exactly). I think if she got measured at school, she would be up to that rainbow on the Noah's Ark measuring thing. She has 2 feet that are the same size. When she wears different clothes, she looks different. Her hair is brown and her eyes are brown (naturally).

Whew! Thank goodness I have two feet the same size! Big as they are, at least they're even. As for the different clothes, different mom thing, I may or may not have been with the CIA. I'm not telling.

I think her favorite food is vegetables and fruit, and other stuff that she eats (chocolate, scones, whipping cream...). I like eating carrots, but I just get them from the refrigerator. The favorite thing she makes me is fruit.

This makes me sound as if I had the poor boy scrounging for himself. Mama, can I have something to eat? Berto would ask. I routinely replied, Are there not carrots in the refrigerator? And then I "made" him fruit by washing it.

My mom likes to snuggle with me. I like to play Candy Land with her. Mom and Dad like to bake stuff in pans together. Momma laughs a little, but not a lot. I laugh a lot. She is funny when she doesn't win at Candy Land. She makes me happy by snuggling with me. I make her happy when I behave.

I played tons of games with Berto when he was a little tike, usually while his little sis Ana was napping. He could beat his papa and me at Sorry! when he was four years old - four years old, people! We always said the Sorry! Leprechauns were on his side; apparently, the Candy Land ones were with him, too.

Berto concluded:

My momma is prettiest when she snuggles with me and her hair is down. I don't have a favorite outfit she wears. Sometimes she is special, but not all the time. I love her A TON. If I talked to God, I'd thank God for her.

The boy has always been obsessed with hair. From the time he was two months old and could get a firm grip on it, he latched on to mine. It became his "lovey".

The part that pierced my heart in this final paragraph was "sometimes she is special, but not all the time." I hoped that it was only because we were going through such a difficult time together, but it broke my heart a little.

Still, he said he loved me A TON, and three years later in first grade, he wrote this:

My mom's name is Hillary. She is special because she loves me so much and I love her so much. I like it when she hugs me. I think she's best at cooking yummy things (no more carrots?) I like to make her smile by being nice to her. My mom is as pretty as !000 patches of flowers. My mom is smart. She even knows how to be the best mom ever! I'd like to tell my mom how awesome and great she is.

Obviously, the boy learned to be more diplomatic.

Ana, my oldest girl, never went to preschool. This is was what my love bug, who wants to follow me around with arms glued about my waist, wrote in first grade:

My mom is special because she loves me. I love her, too. I like it when my mom hugs me! I think she's best at watching the baby (It's hard not to watch a baby who's on the hip or breast nearly every moment. Still, practice makes close to perfect with constant prayer). I like to make her smile by being funny. My mom is as pretty as a tulip (I love that; it was my grandmama's favorite flower). My mom is smart. She even knows what movies I can watch.

As for my three-year-old Danny, he comes to roost softly on my lap every now and then to proclaim, "Mommy, you the best mommy in whole world!" Gabriella tells me that, too, but she squeezes me hard while showing her teeth in order to scare away any bad-mommy inclinations that might remain. All my children raise their hands when I stand over a sink of dishes and call out casually, "Who thinks Mama is the loveliest woman in the whole wide world?" - especially when I've just threatened to take them to the zoo to live with the komodo dragons or spectacled bears.

Now, I would like to answer some questions about my beautiful mother, my Mama Darlin'. Yes, I'm 33 years old and a bit old for this, but I never went to preschool. So here goes:

My mom is Forever Young years old. She is 5'5 and a half. She has topaz eyes and red/brown/black hair. One of her daughters once said to her, "Mama, I don't think I've ever seen you with a bit of gray in your hair!", and she replied, "And you never will, either!" Then she laughed like a school girl. Her favorite food is seafood. Her favorite drink is wine. My favorite thing she has ever made me is blackberry cobbler. Yummy!

My mom likes to go shopping, especially in Paris. When she is with my dad, I don't know and I don't want to know, but I think they like to take naps together and kiss.

My mom laughs easily, and it's like a tinkling bell, inspiring joy. It's part of what makes her forever young. She makes me happy when she laughs, gives me great advice and when I see her with my children. I make her happy when I call or come to visit.

My mom is the prettiest when she wears her business suits with scarfs and beautiful jewelry. My favorite thing she wears is the dramatic jewelry that I love, looking like an Egyptian princess. I think she is special because she is so kind she would defend the devil, and she can be optimistic in almost every circumstance. I love her too much, A TON! I would tell God to please remember that I'm her daughter, so I can't mess up too bad, right?

The baby, not a baby

"Danny," I turned to my littlest in the car, "say 'smooch your pooch'."

Smooch Your Pooch is a children's picture book by Teddy Slater and Arthur Howard. I'm glad we found it at the library, because I get to hear my little guy say the title whenever he wants me to read it. I told him to say it for his Papa as we were headed to his big bro's football game. It's so darn cute how he exaggerates the double oos. It sounds like, "Smeeewch yo peeewch."

He said it after I pleaded a couple times, and I clapped and giggled like Elaine watching those spinning tires in that Seinfeld episode. Then Danny started directing traffic.

"Papa, that means stop. Green means stop."

"What means stop? Green or red?"

"Red means stop."

"And what does yellow mean?"

"Orange means: go schloooow...."

Of course, it's orange to him, because orange is his favorite color. If I barrel through a yellow light, he likes to remind me that orange means "go schlow."

When he said "schlooow" Matthew and I mimicked his adorable pronunciation. I flashed him a big smile, and Matthew and I looked at each other to say, That is so cute.

It is, and he knows it. He's everybody's little darling in this family. He's the baby...except that he isn't a baby anymore, and he doesn't know that he isn't. My eldest boy, Berto, has warned me: "Mama, you have to stop treating him like that. He's going to think he's a baby forever!"

Yeah, alright, but I'm not the one who hauls him around the house pretending he's my six-month-old or my favorite puppy dog (big sisters Ella and Ana). I'm not the one who scoops him up to my shoulder and pats his back every time Mama is a meanie and disciplines him (that's Berto).

This week Berto, continuing his research in parents' influence on proper self-perception, asked his little brother, "Danny are you a toddler or a baby?"

"A baby."

Big brother raised his eyebrows at me with a tight, self-satisfied smile as if to say, See what you've done?

"I know," I replied. "And he isn't even a toddler anymore. Once they turn three they're considered preschoolers."

So Berto turned again to the infant Danny who was playing with his toys and questioned, "Are you a baby or a preschooler?"

"A baby."

He believes it, too. In another library book there's a picture of a baby in a red onesie decked out with yellow stars. The book asks, "Whose fingers? Whose nose? Whose toes are those?" Danny always answers, "A baby...like me! A circus baby!"

I held up my fingers to Berto and whispered, "See? He's two steps behind."

My forever baby.

Starry, Starry Night: There are always points of light in the darkness

A month and a half ago, I was going through my quarterly Vincent Van Gogh period. No, I do not mean that I was inspired to paint pictures to rival Starry Night, The Potato Eaters or Sunflowers. Instead I was going through an artistic depression that, had it progressed further, might have had me contemplating cutting off an ear and mailing it to a relative or some random person.

Of course, I would never do that. I am not even close to being as Vincent Van Gogh as Van Gogh was himself - in manic depression or creative ability. Yet, you must give the beautiful genius this provision for his insane choice: his talent was never properly appreciated or rewarded in his lifetime. No wonder the lady who used to sell him his art supplies, while giving an interview on her hundredth or something birthday, said he was a morose jerk. Ask any creative person, and they're likely to tell you that when they get depressed about the reception of their work and the result of their efforts, they can go to some pretty dark places. And then, on top of it all and because of it all, their generative powers just about die (writer's block, apathetic painter's brush, composer's recalcitrant keys, etc).


We love you, Vincent. You were a genius, if unstable...and aren't we all?


As for this creative person, things turned around on Holy Thursday night. I was a Lector at Mass that evening, and I read the Old Testament reading of the first Passover. While crying and complaining to my husband on the phone at lunch that I was pathetic, he encouraged me to shift my focus from myself and my frustration to something more worthy of my attention. He told me to go over my reading for Mass. I didn't feel like doing it, but I did. And I stayed off my computer. When the time came to depart for church, I got on my knees and asked God to forgive me for snapping at my children every moment and for being completely selfish the whole day because of my self-centered disappointments. During my reading, a miracle: I did not make one mistake - no stuttering, no mispronunciations, no loss of the rhythm in the reading, and I was astounded that such a thing could be on a day when my attitude had been venomous.

My husband whispered, "Good job!" when I returned to the pew, and I replied with conviction, "By the grace of God."

My cry since, whenever I begin to crave the sour berries of self-pity, has been, "Father, save me from discouragement!" Sometimes you have to reject the all too alluring, soul-numbing and dead-ending gospel of "ME".

Anyway, some great things - great to little me - happened in the past couple months. The domesticated bohemian shared one of my posts to Google +. (Thank you, Philip!) My friend Holly wrote a great guest post about her grandfather. I wrote three other fairly popular posts of which I am quite proud. The writer Jennie of A Lady in France gave me some calming words of wisdom. My dad also wrote a guest post, and though it was very short, it of course brought in a slew of traffic, because his pieces always do. And I was gifted with words of encouragement from a cousin, a childhood friend, and my brother who told me that he reads each new post. Of course, I immediately got nervous and upended by writer's block upon hearing this from my big brother. Go figure.

Points of light in the darkness. All I can do, like any of us, is to keep striving. Sure, I've had days when I avoided the computer, and yesterday I missed the once-a-week posting goal I set for myself. As each and every weekend approaches, I resolve that this Saturday I'll sit down and pitch another post to a humor site; yet, for the past three months, being very busy, I haven't. And, okay, SEO does not exist for my blog, and technology to me is like an uneasy alliance with an alien network: great plans, poor communication. But I don't despair. No, indeed. I keep working, keep hoping, keep creating and seeking those points of light in the darkness.

They are always there, those starry, starry nights. They are there for all of us.


Mr London Street published again, and, as usual, it is a beautiful and funny post. He is always brilliant in reflections about his relationship with his wife. His posts, like fine wine, have an excellent finish. I am ashamed that I chronically feel twinges of jealousy when I read his words, but I am sure that I could never so well keep an audience's attention when writing about my mouth guard or my need to fill a prescription. Ah, well, we can't have it all, and I comfort myself that at least he can't write about what it's like to be a mama, or mum, or an accident-prone girl from Tennessee currently living in Arizona - ha!

P.S. Nathan, you're not old, and your words are vibrant. In the words of an American, keep truckin'.