I have a horrible Mom confession to make. Here it is:
I want to punch my daughter's uterus.
Not my daughter, mind you. Her, I adore. It's her internal ladyparts and their effervescing hormones that I have a serious bone to pick with. And yes, I know I just ended my sentence in a preposition. I'm a blogger. I don't have to be that grammatically correct. This is art, you know.
And besides, you don't want to eff with me. Not today, honey.
Let me tell you a story, to explain my urge to pummel my daughter's innards. It all began eighteen years ago, when I finally decided it was time for me to be a Mom. The husband was all on board and we cheerfully tossed away the birth control and made like bunnies toward the goal.
Unfortunately, we didn't learn until two years later that not only were we not playing with a level field, but the goal was behind a brick wall called "infertility" and only a team of microbiologists, reproductive endocrinologists, a petrie dish, multiple ounces of massive fertility drugs and a drained bank account could breach it.
It took five long years, but my daughter was the successful result of our third round of IVF, with ICSI and assisted hatching. Her brother was our fifth, and final attempt. I had them both relatively late in life - she was born five days before my thirty-sixth birthday, and her brother showed up when I was thirty-eight.
Less than five years later, I started showing signs of perio-menopause. The hot flashes, the fuzzy brain, the sporadic periods, the headaches, the mood swings. I wasn't terribly surprised. My mother had hit menopause in her early forties, and this without having had her ovaries popped like giant balls of popcorn as mine had been by the fertility drugs I'd taken. When I started skipping periods, I was actually kind of happy about it. I didn't want more kids, and I hated all the crap that goes with perio-menopause, so I was ready to be good and done with it.
The periods got lighter. And lighter. And more infrequent.
The hot flashes went away. And the mood swings didn't come around much anymore.
Things were leveling off, and in the last twelve months, I can count on one hand how many times I've had a period. When I had one that went for a whole three hours, and was done, I thought to myself.....this could be it. Over. Finito. Free.
But oh, no. Mother Nature doesn't play that way. Instead, she decided to pay a visit to my darling, eleven year old daughter. A big, fat, red visit.
Not that this is an issue. It's a bit young, but not entirely out-of-bounds. It was bound to happen sooner or later and considering she's developing a lot faster than I did, I was banking on sooner. What I wasn't banking on was my body waking up and saying "Oh? Is that a period? May I come along?"
Now we've had two months in a row where she gets a visit from the Jolly Red Giant, and I join the party the following day. This month, it was accompanied by an entire night of hot flashes followed by a morning of obnoxious cramping. What the hell, body! I was done. Done. Do you hear? DONE.
According to a doctor friend, it makes perfect sense. Just like women who live in the same house or dorm room end up having their periods syncronize, a woman who's on the tail end of perio-menopause can be dragged back, kicking and screaming, full-time into the world of baby making by the wretched red cupid's-arrow of flying hormones circulating around her.
My daughter has given me many wonderful gifts. This isn't one of them.
Kid, I love ya. But your uterus? Not so much.
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