You know, it's been years since my mother has felt the need to use my age as an explanation for my odd habits or behaviors until recently- I'm rapidly approaching the menopause years and have begun to exhibit some bizarre activity that she likes to excuse with "she's just getting in that age". That was a phrase I hadn't heard since the snotty teenager years, which of course, are now nothing more than a fond big-haired memory.
My husband does the best he can trying to understand and empathize with the world women live in, especially the woman he lives with, but he's struggling lately due to the simple fact that sharing a bed with me has become a nightmare. It begins with the extra blanket. When I go to bed, I'm cold and need an extra blanket- he does not. He says nothing however because he knows where the extra blanket will lead. Approximately two hours after I fall asleep, the extra blanket turns into some kind of fuzzy oven that is smothering me in my sleep. I wake to wrestle out from under the damn thing, soaked to the bone in my own hormone induced sweat. After I manage to struggle out from under the covers to get some air, he affectionately snuggles up next to me and puts his arm around me.
"Get away from me! You're gonna make me sweat to death!" I shriek in the darkness.
He bounces to his own side of our king size bed. This reaction is a far cry from nearly 9 years ago when we slept cuddled up next to each other all night in a full size bed and nobody complained. He now understands why it's menopause. It causes men to stop and pause pretty much before doing anything in the presence of their wives in the event that she's having a "moment". That's code for violent and hostile mood swings where even the cat somehow manages to be the most annoying creature on the planet simply because I can hear him breathing. Convinced that the animal is going out of his way to breathe as loudly as possible, I shove him off the bed muttering profanity while trying to find a non-sweaty spot on my pillow. Back to sleep it is- for maybe an hour or two...
Anywhere between 3:30 and 4:30am, I'm up for the day. This time, I'm cold and looking for that extra blanket in the dark. So not to disturb the sleeping husband, I rummage through the drawer for my iPad since I'm not sleeping anyway and nobody thinks it's funny when I vacuum at 4am.
Suddenly, from the other side of the king size bed, I hear "What's that light?."
My hormone induced and sleep deprived self responds with "It's the Bat Signal..."
Silence from the other side of the king size bed. I know he's contemplating whether or not it will be worth it to toss out a witty comeback in the middle of the night, or maybe because it's the middle of the night, he can't think of one. So, I say "Is it bothering you?"
Here's the part where he's really struggling. If he says no, he's lying. Nobody wakes up in the middle of the night to inquire about the very issue that woke them in the first place if it's only to satisfy their curiousity. But, if he says yes, well, that's when the menopause flares up. There's about a 50/50 chance that his loving, beautiful wife will turn into the troll who lives under the bridge if he says he's bothered by the glow of the iPad.
Deep sigh, rolls over. I continue with my quest to complete 25 crossword puzzles before the alarm goes off. The alarm is my signal to go back to sleep for a few hours so the day isn't a total loss. I nod off just as my husband is getting up for work...and then a click in the hallway followed by a blinding beam of light.
From the bedroom I holler into the hallway, "What the hell are you doing? I'm trying to sleep...turn off that light."
Deep sigh once again and "Sorry Hon, go back to sleep".
Friday, October 28, 2016
I Put the "Pause" in Menopause...
You know, it's been years since my mother has felt the need to use my age as an explanation for my odd habits or behaviors until recently- I'm rapidly approaching the menopause years and have begun to exhibit some bizarre activity that she likes to excuse with "she's just getting in that age". That was a phrase I hadn't heard since the snotty teenager years, which of course, are now nothing more than a fond big-haired memory.
My husband does the best he can trying to understand and empathize with the world women live in, especially the woman he lives with, but he's struggling lately due to the simple fact that sharing a bed with me has become a nightmare. It begins with the extra blanket. When I go to bed, I'm cold and need an extra blanket- he does not. He says nothing however because he knows where the extra blanket will lead. Approximately two hours after I fall asleep, the extra blanket turns into some kind of fuzzy oven that is smothering me in my sleep. I wake to wrestle out from under the damn thing, soaked to the bone in my own hormone induced sweat. After I manage to struggle out from under the covers to get some air, he affectionately snuggles up next to me and puts his arm around me.
"Get away from me! You're gonna make me sweat to death!" I shriek in the darkness.
He bounces to his own side of our king size bed. This reaction is a far cry from nearly 9 years ago when we slept cuddled up next to each other all night in a full size bed and nobody complained. He now understands why it's menopause. It causes men to stop and pause pretty much before doing anything in the presence of their wives in the event that she's having a "moment". That's code for violent and hostile mood swings where even the cat somehow manages to be the most annoying creature on the planet simply because I can hear him breathing. Convinced that the animal is going out of his way to breathe as loudly as possible, I shove him off the bed muttering profanity while trying to find a non-sweaty spot on my pillow. Back to sleep it is- for maybe an hour or two...
Anywhere between 3:30 and 4:30am, I'm up for the day. This time, I'm cold and looking for that extra blanket in the dark. So not to disturb the sleeping husband, I rummage through the drawer for my iPad since I'm not sleeping anyway and nobody thinks it's funny when I vacuum at 4am.
Suddenly, from the other side of the king size bed, I hear "What's that light?."
My hormone induced and sleep deprived self responds with "It's the Bat Signal..."
Silence from the other side of the king size bed. I know he's contemplating whether or not it will be worth it to toss out a witty comeback in the middle of the night, or maybe because it's the middle of the night, he can't think of one. So, I say "Is it bothering you?"
Here's the part where he's really struggling. If he says no, he's lying. Nobody wakes up in the middle of the night to inquire about the very issue that woke them in the first place if it's only to satisfy their curiousity. But, if he says yes, well, that's when the menopause flares up. There's about a 50/50 chance that his loving, beautiful wife will turn into the troll who lives under the bridge if he says he's bothered by the glow of the iPad.
Deep sigh, rolls over. I continue with my quest to complete 25 crossword puzzles before the alarm goes off. The alarm is my signal to go back to sleep for a few hours so the day isn't a total loss. I nod off just as my husband is getting up for work...and then a click in the hallway followed by a blinding beam of light.
From the bedroom I holler into the hallway, "What the hell are you doing? I'm trying to sleep...turn off that light."
Deep sigh once again and "Sorry Hon, go back to sleep".
My husband does the best he can trying to understand and empathize with the world women live in, especially the woman he lives with, but he's struggling lately due to the simple fact that sharing a bed with me has become a nightmare. It begins with the extra blanket. When I go to bed, I'm cold and need an extra blanket- he does not. He says nothing however because he knows where the extra blanket will lead. Approximately two hours after I fall asleep, the extra blanket turns into some kind of fuzzy oven that is smothering me in my sleep. I wake to wrestle out from under the damn thing, soaked to the bone in my own hormone induced sweat. After I manage to struggle out from under the covers to get some air, he affectionately snuggles up next to me and puts his arm around me.
"Get away from me! You're gonna make me sweat to death!" I shriek in the darkness.
He bounces to his own side of our king size bed. This reaction is a far cry from nearly 9 years ago when we slept cuddled up next to each other all night in a full size bed and nobody complained. He now understands why it's menopause. It causes men to stop and pause pretty much before doing anything in the presence of their wives in the event that she's having a "moment". That's code for violent and hostile mood swings where even the cat somehow manages to be the most annoying creature on the planet simply because I can hear him breathing. Convinced that the animal is going out of his way to breathe as loudly as possible, I shove him off the bed muttering profanity while trying to find a non-sweaty spot on my pillow. Back to sleep it is- for maybe an hour or two...
Anywhere between 3:30 and 4:30am, I'm up for the day. This time, I'm cold and looking for that extra blanket in the dark. So not to disturb the sleeping husband, I rummage through the drawer for my iPad since I'm not sleeping anyway and nobody thinks it's funny when I vacuum at 4am.
Suddenly, from the other side of the king size bed, I hear "What's that light?."
My hormone induced and sleep deprived self responds with "It's the Bat Signal..."
Silence from the other side of the king size bed. I know he's contemplating whether or not it will be worth it to toss out a witty comeback in the middle of the night, or maybe because it's the middle of the night, he can't think of one. So, I say "Is it bothering you?"
Here's the part where he's really struggling. If he says no, he's lying. Nobody wakes up in the middle of the night to inquire about the very issue that woke them in the first place if it's only to satisfy their curiousity. But, if he says yes, well, that's when the menopause flares up. There's about a 50/50 chance that his loving, beautiful wife will turn into the troll who lives under the bridge if he says he's bothered by the glow of the iPad.
Deep sigh, rolls over. I continue with my quest to complete 25 crossword puzzles before the alarm goes off. The alarm is my signal to go back to sleep for a few hours so the day isn't a total loss. I nod off just as my husband is getting up for work...and then a click in the hallway followed by a blinding beam of light.
From the bedroom I holler into the hallway, "What the hell are you doing? I'm trying to sleep...turn off that light."
Deep sigh once again and "Sorry Hon, go back to sleep".
Sunday, February 28, 2016
Forty is Not Funny! : The Hat Trick Years...
Forty is Not Funny! : The Hat Trick Years...: It's never been up for debate what happened to my 20's. My 30's however seemed to blow by like a storm that ran out of rain. It ...
The Hat Trick Years...
It's never been up for debate what happened to my 20's. My 30's however seemed to blow by like a storm that ran out of rain. It was hockey that sucked up my 30's. Early morning practices, late night practices...illness, injury, success and failure and sometimes it was all in the same day! We put in 10 years of hot dogs and creepy hotel rooms, pot lucks and practices, and if I ever drink coffee from a styrofoam cup again, it will be too soon. As we wrapped up our final season as youth hockey players, I've spent the day reflecting on what that means besides how remarkable it is that my son is 10 years older and I somehow have managed to hold on to my youthful appearance. Must be the cold air of the arena and the popcorn oil hanging in the air. Is there some kind of wisdom I can leave behind as a hockey mom legacy before we take the next leap into high school hockey you ask? Why yes my friends, there is...let's begin.
Five miles becomes an incredibly long drive with either or both of the following scenarios: the bag has to ride in the vehicle and not in the trunk, box of pick up, strapped to roof rack or stuck to the grill like dead animal it smells like. This is a very bad situation. That bag and its owner smell like something evil. Some say it's the gloves while others will argue that the skates, a wet towel and 3 months worth the dirty clothes are more likely the culprit. In any case, the bag makes a porta potty on the last day of the county fair smell like a perfume counter compared to that foul bag. It's not quite sweat or rot- it's sort of like freezer burned zombie apocalypse. When you've got a handful of bad choices, you still have to pick one so I will open a window taking a chance that the side of my face is going to freeze and fall off from the -30 degree air coming in just to get rid of the bag stench I'm choking on. Some of the new hockey moms might be worried about weight gain from all the concession stand food and eating out...have no fear- the older your kid gets, the more difficult it becomes to eat in a vehicle with them after practice or a game. The smell of filth will overwhelm you. Weightwatchers should bottle that s@!t and sell it! Next to riding home with the bag in the vehicle is the bad game day. If we lose or he has a bad game, the ride home is quieter than a graveyard. I've tried constructive criticism, motivational speaking and changing the subject. The most advised method to survive this ride is to simply not talk even if you're about to choke to death on sentences like "well, you tried hard" or "I didn't think you played bad at all" They know. They know when they have played poorly, they know why they lost. Your status as amateur ESPN commentator is likely to get you a deep sigh and an eye roll. Nothing makes 5 miles feel like years more than a poorly timed comment to a kid who just lost the big game. And, there are about 15 big games a year- and men say women are attracted to shiny things while 30 guys come together in subzero weather to fight each other over a trophy that isn't even real gold! If there's an award at stake, it's no holds barred. Each and every win will be celebrated and each and every loss will be mourned but not like having a trophy snatched away in the 11th hour.
I've learned that cereal, peanut butter and hard boiled eggs are as necessary as sharpened skates and a nut cup. Let's face it, we aren't going to win any chef's awards for the meals we produce when we have 45 minutes between school and practice. Pretty much anything that can be eaten in the car in 10 minutes or less is a win. I'm also responsible for the death of 1.5 million trees worth of paper plates we've used in my efforts to save time by not having to do the dishes.
Yes, you can wash the equipment. I don't know where this urban legend has come from, but you can in fact wash the hockey equipment and in fact, even the bag to some degree. It helps for the summer while storing what your neighbors may mistake as a body in that hockey bag based solely on the smell.
I've also learned that for every success he celebrates, I celebrate it 1000 times more and for every obstacle and disappointment, I cry a million more tears. I remember it well from the first goal as a Pop to the goal he scored just yesterday as a Bantam. He will remember it too. And he will remember me cheering him on in the stands, threatening to beat down grandpas from Canada, washing out my socks in the sink of a hotel because I didn't bring enough pairs...and every laugh, every tear, every single win, loss or tie. I am a hockey mom.
Five miles becomes an incredibly long drive with either or both of the following scenarios: the bag has to ride in the vehicle and not in the trunk, box of pick up, strapped to roof rack or stuck to the grill like dead animal it smells like. This is a very bad situation. That bag and its owner smell like something evil. Some say it's the gloves while others will argue that the skates, a wet towel and 3 months worth the dirty clothes are more likely the culprit. In any case, the bag makes a porta potty on the last day of the county fair smell like a perfume counter compared to that foul bag. It's not quite sweat or rot- it's sort of like freezer burned zombie apocalypse. When you've got a handful of bad choices, you still have to pick one so I will open a window taking a chance that the side of my face is going to freeze and fall off from the -30 degree air coming in just to get rid of the bag stench I'm choking on. Some of the new hockey moms might be worried about weight gain from all the concession stand food and eating out...have no fear- the older your kid gets, the more difficult it becomes to eat in a vehicle with them after practice or a game. The smell of filth will overwhelm you. Weightwatchers should bottle that s@!t and sell it! Next to riding home with the bag in the vehicle is the bad game day. If we lose or he has a bad game, the ride home is quieter than a graveyard. I've tried constructive criticism, motivational speaking and changing the subject. The most advised method to survive this ride is to simply not talk even if you're about to choke to death on sentences like "well, you tried hard" or "I didn't think you played bad at all" They know. They know when they have played poorly, they know why they lost. Your status as amateur ESPN commentator is likely to get you a deep sigh and an eye roll. Nothing makes 5 miles feel like years more than a poorly timed comment to a kid who just lost the big game. And, there are about 15 big games a year- and men say women are attracted to shiny things while 30 guys come together in subzero weather to fight each other over a trophy that isn't even real gold! If there's an award at stake, it's no holds barred. Each and every win will be celebrated and each and every loss will be mourned but not like having a trophy snatched away in the 11th hour.
I've learned that cereal, peanut butter and hard boiled eggs are as necessary as sharpened skates and a nut cup. Let's face it, we aren't going to win any chef's awards for the meals we produce when we have 45 minutes between school and practice. Pretty much anything that can be eaten in the car in 10 minutes or less is a win. I'm also responsible for the death of 1.5 million trees worth of paper plates we've used in my efforts to save time by not having to do the dishes.
Yes, you can wash the equipment. I don't know where this urban legend has come from, but you can in fact wash the hockey equipment and in fact, even the bag to some degree. It helps for the summer while storing what your neighbors may mistake as a body in that hockey bag based solely on the smell.
I've also learned that for every success he celebrates, I celebrate it 1000 times more and for every obstacle and disappointment, I cry a million more tears. I remember it well from the first goal as a Pop to the goal he scored just yesterday as a Bantam. He will remember it too. And he will remember me cheering him on in the stands, threatening to beat down grandpas from Canada, washing out my socks in the sink of a hotel because I didn't bring enough pairs...and every laugh, every tear, every single win, loss or tie. I am a hockey mom.
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