Tuesday, September 18, 2012

PMT. It's Dynamite.

Last Saturday morning I woke up with the devil in my veins. Premenstrual lady-madness doesn't descend on me often, but when it does, dogs howl and bananas turn black in the bowl and smart men run for the hills.

The PMT rage.

You know the one.

The house.


The house is a never-ending behemoth to conquer. Like Sisyphus I wash up the dishes and pick up the toys and fold the uniforms, while my tiny army trot steadily at my heels, creating new chaos in the wake of each path I clear. On a good day, it is satisfying. Incrementally pleasing. The smell of bread and eucalyptus oil and clean sheets and dinner cooking. The chaos just becomes the warm clutter of family life.

On a tough day, like Saturday,  when the kids are whinging, and everything is filth, and I feel like a drudge, and a failure, and ye gods, a failed drudge, even... life feels dark.

 In every direction my mad eyes scanned, there was housework to be done, or a dirty nappy, or a child with cranky pants on. My blood was fizzing. I texted friends along these lines: I am going to punch somebody or cry or cry while punching somebody HELP ME. 

They had excellent suggestions. Leave the house. Go for a walk. Get a leave pass and have a coffee. Source alcohol and drink it. My favourite suggestion was this: 'Buy a packet of ciggies, go down to the beach and hide behind a rock while you cry and smoke cigarettes one after the other until you feel sick. Worked for me 2 weeks ago.'

I didn't do any of these things in the end. I went to the $2 shop and got myself a new pair of reading glasses. (All mine are one-armed, one-lensed or lost entirely, thanks to Teddy who likes to wear them around the house and George, who has a fierce grip and a curious mind.) Then I picked up Ivy from a party, went home and took to my bed for a couple of hours. When I got up,  Keith and the kids had cleaned up and increased the range of personal space they were allocating me. I felt a little better but still detached and exhausted and overwhelmed.

We had friends over to stay that night, so I hit the red wine hard during a session of the  'Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus' board game and disgraced myself in a novel way. I can't bear to go into details but lets just say that my dignity remains slightly bruised.

Hangover from hell on Sunday.

But business as usual today, i.e:  4pm: George has given herself a blueberry porridge facial while Ted sits below. He has taken bites out of three apples from the fruit bowl and is now required to eat them all in punishment.

PMT. Urgh. 


  1. Ha! Yesterday afternoon I was sweeping up the erstwhile contents of A's 'sensory box' and asked him, 'Mr Baby, do you know who Sisyphus was? Do you know what "sisyphean" means?' He proceeded to shower himself with handfuls of lentils and black-eyed beans while I gave him a lesson in Greek mythology. K was surprised by the nappy full of legumes he encountered while changing him about an hour later.

  2. Yes, urgh. Care to share the other suggestions? I might need them in two weeks, and I don't smoke and don't have a beach nearby...

    Gorgeous baby and naughty-but-funny Ted made me smile!


    1. Just get through Fine. Nothing works on the evil that is hormonal madness. Avoid others is at all possible is the key I think. Then you just have to deal with the feeling shitty, and not the add-ons of guilt, then resentment-at-the-guilt, etc, etc....

  3. Sisyphus is my favourite housework analogy. And boy, do I feel you on the PMT Demon. Wooh!

    Pity I don't smoke anymore ...

    1. No Mrs S! no! If you were an actual smoker, the equivalent advice would have to be to sniff some aerosols, or something. You have to be a non-smoker to appreciate how insane you have become to smoke and weep behind a rock. But god, that image makes me laugh, and laugh and laugh. Just the advice itself made me feel better.

    2. It is complete genius. The equivalent for me would be going for a run. Pffft, like that's gonna happen.

  4. I don't know where to begin with saying how much of this I relate to. The PMT. The feelings about the house. The hitting of the red wine (although I just did it over checkers with my husband - so the embarrassment is lessened somewhat). The price paid. We could go on. Even the bitten apples for Christ's sake!

    Thanks for still writing about it with humour and helping the rest of us see that we're not so "unique" after all ;-)

    1. It's all comedy isn't it Furry. Even the tragic bits. And I love the solidarity in the community of parents, who are all spending their days immersed in poo and Vegemite toast and counting hopelessly to three all the time. x


Thanks for talking to me. I don't got cooties. Oh, except for when I got cooties.