I’ve come to the conclusion that my son and I are on the same cycle.
Recognizing this feels like a punch to the uterus. But I am convinced that when Aunt Flo comes to town, my son has a heightened flow of emotions.
Forgivable during his toddler-tantrum phase, my son’s sass and attitude have begun to disturb me now that he’s older. This has led me to Google things like “monthly bipolar symptoms in children” and “boys and menstruation.” And in case you were wondering—no, he is not going through puberty. He is six, and if he follows in his father’s footsteps, he will not hit his pubescent phase until closer to twenty.
Yet I remain convinced that my son’s moon aligns with mine, with the pheromones flowing out of us like the Red Sea into the Indian Ocean. (Maybe more like the volume of the Red River into the Gulf of Tonkin, because I don’t require jumbo pads.)
When my body springs another leak to remind me that I can become pregnant, my son unmistakably releases extra emotion and disrespect. He appears to have an intuition about my pre-cycle psychosis, and it inevitably engages us in parent-child combat. My yelling increases. His anger heightens. My impatience is as obvious as an after-birth pad stuffed into a bikini.
He is certainly a mama’s boy, but this menstrual sympathy feels like some kind of tampon tax—a slap on an already raw issue. (And let me clarify: by “mama’s boy,” I’m talking Elyse and Alex P. Keaton, or Clair and Theodore Huxtable… nothing related to Oedipus.)
During my five bloodshot days:
- My son’s anger flares up like a case of Candida during the monthly curse.
- He cries like a teenage girl who forgot to remove her tampon and now thinks she has TSS, but the drama is only because he spelled a simple word wrong. He also blames inanimate objects for his woes: “The paper made me do it.”
- His irrational statements collect like menstrual gunk in a DivaCup: “I want to put you in the trash truck.” “Don’t talk to me for the rest of my life.” “Why do I have to take a shower? I’m moving out in high school and getting married, so I don’t have to shower.”
- He cramps my style with complaints about random pains: “I have a concussion from staring too long.” “I got kicked in the weak spot.” I don’t know about other ladies, but when I’m on my period, males complaining about pain in their nether regions make my blood boil.
- His ego becomes almost as bloated and swollen as my nipples, giving him the impression that he is the best at everything (wait, that symptom lasts twenty-eight days).
- His whining is so incessant that I sometimes want to stick a tampon in his mouth—an unused one, of course.
- His mood changes like my cherry-stained granny panties.
- His cut-up knees from soccer bleed longer than normal (he says they’re “glushing blood.” Oh, I’ll show you glushing!) I’m tempted to tell him that an overnight maxi will help absorb the mess on that scraped-up knee.
- He craves attention like I crave dark chocolate with sea salt and almonds. Not only do I hide in the pantry to sneak a bite, but also to seek refuge from the Vermillion Child.
Of course, I realize this could all be me. Maybe my son just feeds off my inflamed, irrational ill humor. Whatever the reason for the mutual menstrual mayhem, I will continue to dread our shared time of the month. I will thrive during those stanched moments we spend together, that hopefully will outnumber the bad, flowing ones.
One day when my uterine wall comes crashing down on him, he will learn to not mess with this hot bloody mama. Once he has, he will become the voice of reason when my daughter grows older and she and I are both combatting the Crimson Army.
This original piece by Stefani Boutelier was written exclusively for In the Powder Room, a division of Hold My Purse Productions, LLC. Featured image © belchonock via depositphotos.com. This post contains an Amazon affiliate link. We do earn a small commission if you purchase through that link, which we use to continue bringing you great content. Thank you for your support of what we do In the Powder Room!