8:21 amI am psycho… WEEEEEE!
Thank you for boarding the Suz-Hormonal-Coaster: the world’s biggest, craziest hormonal rollercoaster ever. Pull your lap bar down tightly, securing yourself in the seat… lest Suz snatch you from it and laugh your ear off about something that is actually not really all that funny. Please keep your arms and legs inside the ride at all times, as Suz could possibly rip them from your body and beat you with them, if her mood is right.
I am a trip to be around right now. Ask my family. Ask my poor husband. Ask my kids. They walk around me — and I mean, WAY around me — giving me a very wide berth. Outside the “strike zone”. Because which one of my many variations will they encounter at any particular moment? No one knows, and that’s what makes it SO FUN!
Friday morning I woke up to bickering kids. Bickering about something that I can’t even remember, and was of absolutely no consequence. (Although if you ask my kids, they will probably be able to tell you in immense detail the origin of the bickering, and illustrate with graphs and pictures several ways in which each of them was actually in the right and therefor they were both dealt a large helping of injustice that day.) Zoe was talking like a baby — a regression thing that probably has something subconscious to do with her unhappiness about her title of “Youngest: Precious Baby” being snatched away by the new infant. And she’s held the title of youngest for nearly 7 years, so it’s probably pretty tough for her. But Friday morning? I didn’t care. I wanted her to stop talking like that. It was irritating. And then when I told her to stop talking like that, she starting whining instead. And yes, there is a difference between baby talk and whining… and at some points she was actually doing both simultaneously. But then Jachin also started in on her. “Zoe, stop it! That is SO ANNOYING!” And then she began screaming. In baby talk. With a fruity hint of whine. So I sent her outside to clean up the yard of all of the toys that had been left out by cousins and friends. Which, as she will tell you, was completely not fair. But she did it. She picked everything up and brought it inside and dumped it all in a pile on Jachin’s bedroom floor. Which wasn’t where any of it went. And then Jachin started screaming. And then Zoe screamed some more. And then I screamed over top of them. And then they both screamed at me. And then I screamed super loud for them to both just pick up stuff and put it away together… because if they both helped, it would take two seconds. But Zoe was not touching the hockey stick because she had not played at all with the hockey stick the day before. And Jachin was not touching the Rescue Hero backpack because he had not played with that at all the day before. And there was more screaming. And I flipped out, people. A hormone of unknown origin surged through my veins and I went ballistic. I marched into Jachin’s room… and by the look on my kids’ faces, I must have had the eyes of a lunatic. “Give me your hand!” I yelled to Jachin. He held out his hand as I picked up the hockey stick, and then he looked at me like please don’t beat me with that hockey stick, mom as I shoved the hockey stick into his hand. “Give me your other hand!” I yelled. He held out his other hand and I crammed another toy into that hand. Then I turned to Zoe, who may have peed her pants in fear at this point. “Give me your hands!” I yelled, and I crammed toys into her hands. “Now put away the frickin toys! And I want 10 minutes of quiet peace!” And I marched out. And they whispered about how mommy was a crazy lady… as they put the toys away. And I stormed into the kitchen where I saw that Zoe had left the backdoor hanging wide open after her yard cleaning. And the landscaping people mowing the neighbor’s yard were looking over the fence at me as glared at them and slammed the door shut. And if they had known how say “insane pregnant woman with wild eyes like a badger” in English, I have no doubt that a 911 call would have been made.
That was Friday.
Saturday? Oh, Saturday night Jon and I went out for a lovely date. We wandered the mall for a little while and window shopped and bought some awesome stuff at the bargain bookstore. We went to the movies to see Ghost Town (which was a cute little flick). We held hands and chatted and giggled. We decided to stop for some quick dinner on the way home. Wanting to relieve my grandma from babysitting duties before it got too late, we decided on the drive-thru. “Where do you want to eat?” I asked. “You decide,” Jon said. And I hate when this is the response. Not because I don’t know what I like or I can’t make a decision, but because I feel like I have to factor in what he may or may not be feeling like eating. So I see a Fazoli’s up ahead on the left, and I think about how awesome a really good spaghetti would be. But then I think that it would be kind of selfish because Jon hates pasta. It’s sort of the only food he really dislikes. So I pass on the Fazoli’s and I drive up to the Taco Time. And I pull up to the board, and I look at at it. And I was still kinda giggling about something Jon had said that was funny. And I order a crisp chicken taco, which sounds kind of gross, but I have to make a fast decision. And then I turn to Jon and say, “What do you want?” And he says, “Ummm, nothing. I’ll just make something at home.” And at that instant — I mean, seriously, in an instant — something surges through my veins again, and by the time I pull up to the window, I am crying. I mean, honest tears streaming, looking out the window so my husband won’t know, crying. Actually, kind of bawling. Because I was now stuck with a taco when I wanted spaghetti. I. wanted. spaghetti!! And it felt like the wild, irrational crying I did when I was 5 years old, when you feel completely robbed of something but are powerless to do anything about it. And it was ridiculous, and I couldn’t stop. And my husband sat on the passenger side wondering what the hell was going on, when to me it was obvious: I did not want a stupid taco. And the guy handing me my gross taco out the little window looked at me sadly like maybe someone I knew had just died and I was stopping for a taco on my way to the funeral. He did the only consoling thing he could do… he gave me extra napkins.
That was Saturday.
Last night? Last night Zoe brought out a huge packet of stories she’s been doing at school. I read through them and giggled because she is clever and creative and the stories were really quite funny. And then one in particular was about how she fell in love with her teacher on Back to School Night, and the illustration was of Zoe (always with wild, curly hair) looking up at her pretty stick-figure teacher. And Zoe drew her own eyeballs popping out of her curly head at how awesome her new teacher was. And I started laughing. And then I couldn’t stop laughing. And I laughed until I was crying and I was making weird laughing noises. And I could. not. stop. And I half peed. And Jon and the kids both looked at me like I was insane. But, like, not in such a shocked way anymore. Because I think they are becoming comfortable with the fact that I am insane. And I’m trying to figure out if that’s a good thing or not. I’m pretty sure it’s not.
My poor, poor family. Hug them when you see them.
Thank you for riding the Suz-Hormonal-Coaster. Come ride again. If for no other reason than to sympathize with my husband and kids. Because they are stuck on this ride for the next little while. And it’s mostly not fun, just tiring and dizzying. And there are no barf bags.
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You need more pie. It helps.
(Seriously, take care, ok? Riding the hormone roller coaster is no fun.)
Comment by Lisa Milton — October 20, 2008 @ 12:55 pm
Wow have I been out of touch or what. You’ve posted like a zillion times since I last checked in. Hang in there. There are treats heading your way!
Comment by Diana — October 27, 2008 @ 9:13 am
Hormones are crazy things. It’s amazing how they can just take over and make you cry or laugh or want spaghetti really, really bad.
Hang in there.
Comment by Leslie — November 4, 2008 @ 8:38 pm