If you are a particularly private person, or if you are a bit squeamish, or even if you are a man who is too delicate to discuss lady-parts, then look away now. Because this article is all about one of my least favourite things in life:
Parenting on my period.
Once a month, nature sees fit to torture me in that oh-so-natural way of hers. The floodgates open and a torrent of hell is unleashed upon me, and let’s be honest, my family.
As I watch fearfully for shark attacks whilst guzzling painkillers and junk food, my husband puts on his extra thick skin and buckles in for 7 days of crazy. The few days beforehand are spent being irrationally over-emotional about EVERYTHING from newborn nappy ads, to being cut up in traffic; from the perfect cup of tea to my choices in life.
And it always takes me about two days to figure out what the hell is going on. Every. Month. Why the hell is that???
“Why is life so hard at the moment? Why does my family hate me? Why do I look pregnant?? Wait, what date is it? Oh…” *shreds note to family explaining why I left…
I start to fart profusely. I have no idea why this happens. Why does this happen? It is a testament to my husband that he baulks politely to one side each time I break wind. Or maybe, just maybe, once a month he gets a taste of his own medicine so he keeps his mouth shut!
My lady-parts feel like they are being pulled to the ground by tonne weights – this is a phenomenon that I have scientifically named ‘Vaj Drag’ and is horrifically sore and uncomfortable. There is nothing worse than being doubled over with cramps clinging to the nearest surface whilst clutching your vagina.
Especially in public.
Your only hope is a dash to your local chemist for much needed help (because I never have the foresight to stock up on supplies). Sorry, excuse me? You’re telling me you don’t give Nurofen Plus over the counter? Why do I need it exactly? Well, let me see…I always find life so much harder when I am bleeding profusely. NOW GIVE ME THE DAMN TABLETS LITTLE MAN!!
But how do you explain all this to your little ones?
How do you explain that once a month Mummy is close to bleeding to death? That they can’t participate in their usual bathroom spectator sport because you don’t want them to witness a scene from ‘Carrie’. That there is no remaining treaty-treats in the house because Mummy inhaled them last night for medicinal purposes. And that they really should back off and stop arguing/fighting/shouting/breathing before Mummy loses her shit!
You can’t shut yourself away in splendid isolation with five hot water bottles and a 2ltr box of wine. No. You have to put on your big girl pants (literally), all of the lycra based clothing you possess and just plough on.
I have no advice on how to do this, but do it with chocolate and do it sitting down wherever you can. Just tell yourself, “Ride out the red wave sister!” and try to make it through the week without committing a homicide.
You’ve got this! For the next twenty odd years…
Sadly, ‘tis all ahead of my two wee girls. Sadder still, ‘tis all ahead of my husband… 🙂