Before children, I was never a particularly easy person to live with. Now I’m like Mumra the Destroyer. Talk to me – no, even LOOK at me – in the wrong way between ovulation and the first day of my period, and you may find yourself shoved in the washing machine and put on a 90 degree spin with a faceful of Bold Ultra. Either that or I will be crying inconsolably at Come Dine With Me. Welcome to the world of pre-menstrual parenting, where anything or anyone can set you off…
You have no ability to deal with anything
Parenting isn’t complicated in itself. What’s complicated is that there’s an endless mix of really fiddly things, which all come at you at once like a tidal wave. Fixing S-clips on loom bands while trying to fill a water cup. Putting Sudocrem on a bite while boiling some carrots. Putting a tiny pair of socks on a Sylvanian panda while hanging out the washing. When you have PMT, though, you can’t cope with more than one thing at a time. Also, you have massive clumsy sausage fingers and you’ve burnt the carrots and knocked a plant over and how did that Sylvanian Family camper van get embedded in the wall?
You are feeling all the feelings
Having children is an emotional rollercoaster. They make you happy, they make you sad, they make you angry, they make you mad. You could be the steadiest Eddie in the world and still be driven spare by people not big enough to reach your knee. When you’re hormonal, though, everything is magnified. That snot bubble is extra disgusting. Their presence is overwhelming. Their hair is tangled, and they’re really grating on your nerves, and they’re amazing and why don’t they just go away. Then, when they go to bed, you think about how lovely they are, and how vulnerable, and how they won’t be kids forever, and you cry and end up diluting your wine.
Look at this f****** !
Hormonal rage has no real focus. You really don’t want to go off on one, but the emotional pressure cooker is set to a thousand degrees. If you need a peg to hang your rage onto, look no further than the state of this bloody house. When you’re PMTed up to the eyeballs, even a Lego minifigure left in the wrong place can cause a terrifying chain reaction that may lead to one or more children being sucked up by Henry the hoover.
You want to eat all the carbs
Usually, you can restrain yourself. But when PMT comes to call, the world transforms into a large, delicious bread roll that must be crammed into your mouth as a matter of great urgency. Making dinner for children is painful when you’re pre-menstrual. You find yourself hovering over their plates, scoffing bits of pasta, grabbing the dribbled on pizza crusts and nicking their potato waffles when they’re not looking. You have become a human bin. (Actually, if it’s in the bin already, you’ll probably fish it out and eat it).
The Gruffalo is just.so.sad.
The thing is, the Gruffalo is LONELY and misunderstood. He just wants to hang out with some woodland creatures, and maybe eat them, but we shouldn’t judge, should we? I mean, how would you feel if you had knobbly knees and turned out toes and a poisonous wart at the end of your nose? The poor guy needs some understanding and maybe some therapy to help him see that he’s beautiful on the inside. Instead all he gets is an obnoxious little mouse who wants to put him in a crumble. It’s just….barbaric.
Oh my God what if someone dies. What if a brick hits them when they’re at school, or a terrorist attack happens or a bus crash. Where are they anyway? Oh it’s OK, they’re just playing over there. But hang on, what if they fall off that climbing frame or they get anaphylactic shock from a wasp sting. We’d better go home. But what if someone’s burgled the house?
*Repeat until end of menopause*
Men are useless
We’re all barely tolerating the various ‘unique’ traits of our partners at the best of times, but when you’re hormonal, they are the most useless lumps of inert sausage you’ve ever laid eyes on. What are they FOR, anyway? They come in, eat dinner, get in the way, make a mess, say annoying things, make you cry and make you want to hit them with a day old baguette. Then, when you let rip, you feel bad for upsetting them.
They’re not bad at all! You LOVE THEM! They’re soooooo lovely. Where are they going?