Eight days in a minivan. Two countries. Two boys. One dad. And one PMSing mom. Vacations really should be planned around my monthly cycle. I am not fit to be around people while suffering in hormonal hell. The world is coming to an end. Everything is awful and will never be ok again. Mark should lock me away in the attic and be done with it. Go on with his life. Find a new wife who is happy and fun, maybe younger and in better shape. Then, I remember to count the days on the calendar.
Sadly, the realization of a reason for my crazy does little to shield my loved ones. They are subjected to my irrational irritation at random things they say and do. They try to comfort me as I cry over newspaper headlines, sappy country songs, and the fact that we are out of milk and I’ve already poured my cereal into the bowl. I think my husband may have coached the children to stay out of the way, and say little, if mom seems like she’s losing it.
Sadly, the realization of a reason for my crazy does little to shield my loved ones. They are subjected to my irrational irritation at random things they say and do. They try to comfort me as I cry over newspaper headlines, sappy country songs, and the fact that we are out of milk and I’ve already poured my cereal into the bowl. I think my husband may have coached the children to stay out of the way, and say little, if mom seems like she’s losing it.
Unfortunately, there was no hiding last month as the four of us were trapped driving across countries together for this particular week. I tried to keep it together. I tried to remember that my thoughts and feelings were not real, but a figment of a fucked up hormonal imbalance. Knowing this helped me to limit my temperamental outbursts, but did not actually make me feel any better. So I suffered in silence - for awhile. The silence was suffocating, and became one of the grim things I fixated on. The thought, “There is no communication in this family. The children will grow up and go away without ever really talking to us. We won’t even know them. We’re horrible parents,” spun in my head.
I snapped at the boys to take a break from their damn devices and spend some time as a family. They sighed, turned things off, and looked at me. Then I switched gears, and tried to cheerfully ask them questions.
“So what’s your favorite part of the trip so far? Of all our trips, which one was the most fun? If you could go anywhere where would you go?”
They answered with one or two words and then sat in silence. This went on until I ran out of questions and patience. I asked if they wished we talked more.
“No. I think we talk enough.”
I sighed, and told them their screen break was over. They quickly turned everything back on and I looked out the window, convinced we’d all die alone.
Clearly, the kids are a lost cause. But what about my husband? I’m sure we used to spend more of this time talking, laughing, and enjoying being together. This trip seemed to be mostly him driving and me pouting. I struggled to find something to talk about and came up with nothing. I tried asking him questions. He’d answer and then we’d sit in silence. When I ran out of questions and patience, I irritatedly pointed out to him his lacking communication skills.
“You never ask me about the things I do or the things I’m interested in. I have to do all the work.”
“That’s not true. I just asked you who you thought would win the World Cup.”
“Do you honestly think asking me a question about something you know I have absolutely no interest in is a good way to start a conversation?”
“Well, I tried.”
“That is not trying. After 20 years of marriage, do we just have nothing left to say? Is this how it’s going to be? Are we going to be that miserable looking older couple at the restaurant table finishing their dinner without ever saying a word to each other?”
“Katie, you know you’re overreacting. We’re talking as much on this trip as we do on any trip. We can’t talk nonstop for the 8 hours a day that we’re in the car. Aren’t you getting your period this week?”
For some women, those are fighting words. For me, they are an appreciated reality check.
“Do you think that’s it? Am I being crazy?”
“That’s probably it. We’re fine. Everything will seem better in a few days. Hang in there.”
I almost expected him to give me a “little slugger” punch on the shoulder. Instead, he turned up the radio and stared down the road. I went back to gloomily looking out the window, and ruminating over the deterioration of the American family.
Later, Ben, my 11-year-old, noticed my unhappiness, turned off his iTouch, and chimed in, “So, Mom, which 'Die Hard' movie is your favorite?” Movies are Ben’s thing. The way some people are with their favorite sports, Ben is with movies. He can name off actors, directors, critic ratings, and random bits of trivia for almost any movie you could think to ask him about. I do actually like the 'Die Hard' movies, and I appreciated his attempt to cheer me up.
That night, I thanked him for being sensitive to my feelings, but also reminded him that it’s not his job to make things ok for me. “It’s my job to take care of you, not the other way around, but I do love how sweet you are.” Hearing this, he seemed relieved. I don’t want my children to feel the burden of responsibility for my happiness. I encourage them to be thoughtful and kind people, while making sure we’re all on the same page - you are the kids, I am the mother, you don’t need to take care of me.
Even with this, I know my moods aren't easy for the boys. Neither of them does well with conflict. I’m thankful that a peaceful home is their norm. That my crankiness is something unusual. Sometimes I worry that their lives are too easy. Could they cope in a crisis or would they crumble under the stress? Will they feel the bad times that much more deeply because they’re not used to them? I would never wish hardships on my children, but life is full of struggles and I hope they're strong enough to overcome them. Maybe my PMS moments toughen them up, just a little bit.
