Parenting During Menopause (part 1)

I wanted to be a mother since I was 10. And according to my younger self, babysitting jobs, childhood role-playing, and television sitcoms and movies gave me enough learning experience to be a good one.

Still, I didn’t start having my children till later in life, at least by statistical Midwestern standards. My mother was 20 when she had me and my much older, more educated and organized self, thought I was beyond ready for motherhood. I had my first-born when I was 29 and recall the guilt and panic draping over my shocked and torn body after he joined me on earth-side. I had no fucking clue what was next.

How foolish could I have been to read all the right books, socialize with all the right families, and set myself up for the fallacy of actually being ready? Yet that was the beginning…

I had my first-born at 29, but had no fucking clue what was next.

Fast forward another 7 years and two more kids, and there I was entering perimenopause with this sudden urgency to get them out of my line of fire.

Menopause is a funny thing. In many ways it’s beautiful: raw, real, and primal. Yet having young children in the midst of it, complicates things. My dreams of being the perfect mother - one with fresh baked cookies on the fly when they returned from school and an endless stream of patience - is impossible even for moms far from midlife, yet in the thick of it? Closer to a smoky fog from hell.

My oldest and now 11-year-old is by far the most understanding. When he sees my face after a rough night of night sweats and insomnia, he usually steers clear and minimizes his expectations of a warm and cuddly mom throughout the day. But my middle 8-year-old and youngest 4-year-old? Guilt is an understatement for what I feel when they’re around.

I feel so worthless, this irritable, less-than engaged version of the mother i aspired to be when I was younger. I was so naive to parenthood.

My 8-year-old is my only daughter aside from our 3-year-old fur-baby. We’ve talked at length about periods and where babies come from due to too many bathroom interruptions gone wrong - mommy’s blood filled Diva Cup in hand. But menopause is a hard convo to explain. I’ve mentioned it casually: “there are some changes in my body and mind right now.” How could she fully comprehend, "My hormones are raging and thus my attention span, patience level, and sleeping patterns are all over the place.”

She does her best to show compassion though. She often helps out a little more when I’m a little less able to spread myself any thinner. But I worry about how she’ll remember her childhood. I feel so worthless at times as I become this irritable, less than engaged version of the mother I aspired to be when I was younger and so naive to parenthood.

It was easier with two. It was a more even balancing act. But once the third hit the scales, all hell broke loose…

Then there’s my youngest. He’s a lot like a cross between Animal from the Muppet’s and the Loony Tune character, Tasmanian Devil. He’s wild and loud in just about everything he says, wants, and does. With him, it’s impossible to explain anything.

I try to give him that extra snuggle or moment together, yet more often than not it’s gratingly irritating. He’s relentless.

It was easier with two. An easier act to balance. But once the third hit the scales, all hell broke loose. And to add to it, I was an older, more ragged and exhausted mom with the least amount of patience and hormonal predictability. I don’t want him to feel left out or like he got the short end of the childhood-stick, but I honestly have no way to predict or guarantee he’ll come out any better or fair quite as well as his siblings.

So I wait.

That’s all I can really do at this point, despite the nagging feeling of missing most of the benchmarks of what I thought I’d be like as a mother decades ago.

Maybe this isn’t a menopause or midlife thing at all. Maybe this applies to all mothers and the depiction of the perfection of motherhood in general. But it doesn’t help to carry the weight of fluctuating hormones of not just prepubescent tweens but now mom too. The juggling act doesn’t feel any easier from my side of things so I can’t imagine how it might feel from any of my kids’ perspectives.

My younger self sure had some boneheaded ideals of what motherhood and life as a grown woman was going to be like. I sure wish I could’ve given her a few tips to avoid some unnecessary bumps along the way, but damn. More than that, I just wish my younger self would’ve gotten a healthy briefing about menopause, middle age, and some warnings about managing midlife crisis while parenting.

Maybe it wouldn’t have prepared me any more than all the books and classes and people I looked to for childbearing and child rearing guidance. But it sure would’ve given me a better scope than the handful of pamphlets and posters of women that looked older than most of my grandmothers.

Maybe it would’ve given me a sliver of hope for those not-so-hopeful days.

Maybe…

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