My PMS Is Real — Just Ask My Family

My husband and I were on a date, and he got a bloody nose while driving. His eyes started darting back and forth as he stopped moving his head as if his neck was really stiff. I rolled my eyes — great, here it comes. “Oh god, oh god. My nose is bleeding.” He pulled into a parking lot and asked me to run in and get him some toilet paper as he reclined in the driver seat and turned off the lights.

“We are like 40 spaces from the store, and it is so dark. Can’t you park any closer?” I asked.

“No, I don’t want anyone to see me. Now hurry, run! I have a bloody nose!”

“Try bleeding outta your crotch every month, dude,” I said, slamming the door. I had PMS — not a good time to cry about a bloody nose.

Do I have bad PMS? Yes, just ask my family. This is what they will tell you:

I don’t share food.

Now, as moms we are used to sharing things, especially food because it just tastes better off of our plates, and we want to makes our kids happy. But over the years my kids have come to the realization that mama does not share food while she has PMS. I eat all the things, steal candy from my kids, and drink a bag of chips as I am waiting in line to pay for them. It embarrasses them terribly, but I remind them they used to throw tantrums and shit in public places, so they can deal with a little chip drinking while in the checkout line.

I cry a lot.

A somewhat sappy commercial comes on the television…I cry. My kids decide (on their own) to share the last cookie…I weep. My husband does the laundry…I am a gonner. A slow song from the ’90s comes on the radio and reminds me of a high school dance…forget about it. We can’t keep enough Kleenex in the house, and I have special waterproof mascara that I save for this emotional time of the month.

Everyone sucks.

And I mean everyone. Nobody can do right by me. You look at me the wrong way, I will flip you off with both hands. If I go shopping (this is ill-advised during PMS) and the clothes don’t fit, I physically fight them. If you are chewing too loudly within earshot, may the good lord have mercy on your soul. If Caillou comes on the television, I will break that fucker in half.

I apologize all the time.

I don’t think people need to over apologize for certain things, especially women and mothers. However, no matter how real my PMS is, I will be the first to admit I am just a combative bitch during this one week of the month, so I apologize to my family. I believe it is in order. I am also kind of hoping it will right all the times I won’t share food, flip them off, and drink chips in the grocery store. But mostly for when they are forced to run in the other direction because they know mama is gonna blow. But I will never, ever apologize to Caillou.

I figure we have earned it — the right to our irritable moods, the right to our hoarding of food, the right to cry at every fucking commercial and expect someone to pass the tissues. We are the ones living it every month, we are the ones who endure the pain of it all, oh, and news flash: We don’t like it any more than you do.

So shut up and rub my feet while I eat some ice cream.