Now at the risk of sounding like I am obsessed with it (Hey ho, I am. I find myself an endless source of fascination) and offending anyone upset by the discussion of such delicate matters, I want to talk about my menstrual cycle.
You see I have always been a once a month lunatic. Since I was fourteen I have wailed and moaned and snapped and shouted and cryed at the drop of a hat and since I had Finley the madness has reached new heights. This new form of pre-menstrual dementia has taken on a very distinctive pattern: no longer am I content to take to my chaise longue with a hot water bottle and avoid people whose face bugs me.
Oh no. Nowadays my ten day hysteria is punctuated by two days of what I can only call euphoria. Two days when I am a bundle of energy, ready to cook up a storm, clean the house from top to bottom, be the best Mommy in the whole wide world, and smile in a really rather crazy fashion until Mark can no longer abide the jollity and insists I go to bed.
People I get happy.
It’s the strangest thing. One minute I’m screaming like a banshee at the cretin who cannot even manage to puff up a cushion correctly and the next I’m baking heart shaped apple pies , fluffing up my hair and batting my eyelashes while I clean the hellhole under the sink and drag a chair around the house so I can elimate that pesky top of the door dust. Never mind that I burn toast and there is no hope of paying the phone bill this month. All my worries are dissolved in the grip of this temporary wonderful madness.
It’s fabulously wack and I can only put it down to the fact that my body is holding a monthly staging of the preparation we are compelled to do in the few days before we pop our babbas out. Which really rather thrillingly means that for two days the house is a dream and I am the kind of smiley 1950’s perfect mommy and housewife I pretend to be the rest of the month.
I am in short a joy to behold. But you will be please to hear that it has passed and I am in tummy ache phase now. So beware. It ain’t pretty.