5:38 AM: Morning Crying Spells and Working Mom Guilt

It wasn’t unusual for me to wake up weeping, and that morning was no different.

The tears cascaded down my face as I finished making the kids’ lunches. Jack reminded me that I’d given him Olivia’s pasta instead of his chicken nuggets the day before, so I took my time making sure I got it right. Otherwise, Mr. Particular wouldn’t eat. Sure, they were old enough to make their own lunches, but being a full-time working mother meant I wasn’t as involved in their lives as I wanted to be. So getting up extra early to prepare a hot lunch wasn’t just an act of motherly love, but an apology.

My way of making up for the times I couldn’t chaperone their field trips or volunteer at the school dance, for having every intention of attending PTA meetings and still missing every one of them, for working long hours and sticking them in an after-school program while their friends rode their bikes up and down the block. And, more than anything else, for being a short-tempered, moody-ass mother who went off on them every morning before they left for school.

Good thing they were sound asleep. The waterworks had become part of my morning routine, and I didn’t want to worry them needlessly. Besides, it wasn’t the worst thing in the world if I let them sleep in while I cleaned up behind them. The poor babies were swamped with tons of homework most nights, and it was no skin off my back if I tossed their smelly socks and crusty underwear into the hamper or removed half-eaten pizza from under their beds, all while Sleeping Beauty and Prince Charming lay there—like I was somebody’s damn maid!

Wait a minute!!

“OLIVIA AND JACK! If you don’t get your lazy, good-for-nothing butts up RIGHT NOW…I’mma whoop yo’ ass!!!”

8:18 AM: Hiding From My Staff—and Finding an Unexpected Lifeline

I made it to work later than usual, but thankfully, well before the crowd formed outside. After wrapping up my morning meeting, I asked my secretary to take my calls and tell anyone requesting to see me that I was tied up behind closed doors. I knew my staff all too well. What started as a minute of my time almost always turned into an hour of free therapy—and trust me, I was the last shoulder anyone wanted to cry on.

Not only were my crying spells worse than ever, but as I hid in my office like a fugitive on the lam, it occurred to me that I might be suffering from anxiety. I assumed my constant crying had something to do with my increasingly erratic PMS, but for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why my normally happy-go-lucky nature had been replaced by a sense of gloom and doom that reduced me to a bundle of nerves.

Knock, Knock! 

Darn it! Just as I suspected, Peggy-the-Pushover, couldn’t fend them off any longer.

“Myrtle from the cafeteria really needs to speak with you,” she whispered as she peered into my office.

I recall her wanting to meet with me for weeks, but Myrtle was a talker, the kind who reeled you in and wouldn’t let you go until she sucked you dry. I didn’t have the bandwidth to suffer through it, but she was old enough to be my mother, so I mustered up the friendliest face I could find and welcomed her in.

“Hey, Myrtle, I been meaning to speak with you. Come on in,” I said with a smile.

As expected, she rattled on for what seemed like an eternity, complaining about everything under the sun. But to my credit, I did an impressive job of nodding my head and acting concerned until she suddenly stopped mid-sentence.

“By the way, how you been, Mrs. Winkler? We don’t get to see you much anymore.”

“Uhm, well, yeah. Just busy with one meeting after another. You know how that goes.” And then, for whatever reason, I spilled the beans. “Well, truth be told, Myrtle, I been feeling a little anxious lately.”

“Is that right?” she asked. “Well, if you don’t mind me asking, ’bout how old are you now, Mrs. Winkler?”

“Like, mid-40-something-ish,” I replied.

“Oh, that’s the change of life, is what that is,” she said.

“You think?” I asked.

“Absolutely!” Myrtle continued. “I had it something awful.”

“Really?” I said with cautious optimism. “You mean…it’s normal?”

“You betcha,” she exclaimed before launching into a blow-by-blow account of the anxiety she experienced during “the change.” From feelings of dread and despair to sweaty palms, heart palpitations, and panic attacks—to wanting to hide under a rock and never come out—she described exactly what I had been feeling, down to a T. And for the first time since knowing Myrtle, I hung on to her every word.

“Anxiety makes hot flashes seem like a walk in the park,” she laughed. “But you’ll get through it. Just take deep breaths and remember—it won’t last forever.”

Before she could leave, I grabbed her and hugged her so hard I nearly knocked her to the floor.

Who would’ve thought that anxiety was a symptom of perimenopause? And to think I’d been avoiding her for months. It just goes to show how the things we run from are often what we need most. In this case, it was sharing my experience with another woman like Myrtle, whose words of wisdom lifted the weight of the world from my shoulders and let me know I wasn’t alone.

5:25 PM: Practicing Gratitude (Before All Hell Breaks Loose)

That night, it was my turn to carpool Jack and his friends to practice and run Olivia across town for violin. What usually felt like a chore didn’t seem so bad given my new outlook on life. In fact, as Jack and his two best buds sat in the backseat making fart sounds and rapping at the top of their lungs, an overwhelming sense of gratitude washed over me.

For one thing, I had some great kids. As much as they got on my last nerve, I’d waited a long time to have Olivia and Jack, and I was incredibly lucky to be their mom. So, as a special treat, I decided to swing through the drive-thru on the way home and pick up their favorite tacos for dinner.

Secondly, I was grateful to know I wasn’t going off the deep end after all. I was simply going through a rough patch in life, like tons of other women before me. And if they could suck it up and stick it out with dignity and grace, then so could I.

Right then and there, I resolved to stop feeling sorry for myself and to stop going off on the kids so much. I needed to take a chill pill, hold my head high, and push through perimenopause, knowing these episodes would soon be a thing of the past.

7:37 PM: The Taco Massacre

By the time we got home, I was famished. I barely took my coat off before the kids figured out whose was whose and ran off with their food. I smiled as they sped away, happy to see them getting along for a change and grateful for a moment to sit down and devour my dinner in peace.

But as I pulled up a stool and opened my bag, I suddenly stopped short.

“What the…?”

It took me a minute to fully process what I was seeing. When it all came together, I couldn’t explain what came over me, except that I temporarily lost touch with reality and found myself spinning completely out of control.

When I finally regained my composure, Olivia had returned for seconds.

“Hey, Mommy. Where’s the rest of the tacos?” she asked.

“In smash heaven,” I panted.

“Huh?” she said, staring at me.

I locked eyes with hers and repeated myself, breathing even harder.

“You heard me. SMASH heaven!”

She followed my eyes to the smashed tacos splattered across the kitchen floor. In disbelief, she looked back at me, eyes wide, jaw dropped.

“That’s what happens when you tear through the bags and mess with my tacos,” I said.

“Whaddya mean?” she asked.

“My Double-Stuffed Taco Supremes were flipped upside down and completely ruined—just like yours are now. How ’bout that?!” I shouted, enraged and practically in tears.

“O.M.G., Mommy! It’s not that serious,” she said as she backed out of the kitchen, then yelled to her brother, “Jack, Mommy is LOSING IT!”

“Yeah, you better get outta here!” I shouted back, with a sense of vindication that felt as foolish as it was short-lived.

Smashing their tacos felt good, even justified, in the moment. But afterward, I began to wonder if maybe I really was losing it. Just that morning, I was crying over getting their lunches right, and now I had smashed their dinner to smithereens.

“What is going on with me?” I asked, gazing out the kitchen window into the darkness, as if the moon had an answer.

When I finally turned around to face the mess I had made, to my surprise, Olivia had returned and was picking up the smashed tacos off the kitchen floor.

“Mommy,” she insisted, “I’m sorry, but it was an accident. We didn’t mean to ruin your tacos, honest.”

“I know, Olivia, but you guys need to slow down and be a little more considerate of others,” I said as I bent down to help her. “And I’m sorry, too,” I sighed. “Not sure what got into me, but thanks for helping to clean this up.”

“No prob,” she replied as we tossed the remnants of my rage into the garbage.

I wanted to reach over and give her a big hug, but decided against it. Olivia-The-Pre-Teen wasn’t into hugging me lately, so rather than run the risk of being rejected and having another meltdown, I reached for the next best thing—a cold bottle of Pinot Grigio. After cracking it open, I poured myself an extra tall glass and headed upstairs to run a bath.

8:50 PM: Perimenopause 101: The Class Nobody Taught Us

Thankfully, with the game on, Mr. Winkler wouldn’t bother me while I was bathing, and if I were really lucky, he’d be snoring by the time I got out. I only had enough strength for a nice, warm bath with soothing salts and my favorite essential oils, my nightly me-time ritual—a chance to unwind, reflect on my day, and recite what would become an all-too-familiar prayer: “Lord, please help me.”

As I lay there soaking my aching back and weary bones, my mind ran through the events of the day, especially my out-of-control mood swings. Goodness knows I woke up that morning intending to do right by my kids, only to fail more miserably than ever. The taco massacre would surely take top honors as one of my least-proud mommy moments and one I’d probably never live down.

Losing my temper with the kids was certainly nothing new, but it had never been that explosive or irrational. If I’d just finished off the rest of their stupid tacos, I still would’ve taught them a lesson, and my butt wouldn’t be up here starving half to death!

Although I was incredibly grateful for my talk with Myrtle that morning, it got me thinking. Why is it that no one warns us about perimenopause the way we prepare pre-teens for puberty? Middle schools make it a standard part of their sex-ed curriculum, with some even handing out care packages filled with tampons, pantyliners, and deodorant. Engaged couples participate in premarital counseling before their big day, and expectant moms take prenatal classes to learn what to expect when they’re expecting.

But what about us perimenopausal girls? All you have to do is look at us to know something ain’t right. So why not make menopause boot camp a routine part of our OB-GYN visit once we hit the BIG 40? Just like we learned all about the birds and the bees, fill us in on the flashes and the fog, then send us on our way with a rechargeable hand fan, a tub of vaginal lubricant, and some pads for light bladder leaks—just saying!

10:05 PM: Journaling Through the Midlife Journey

Lucky for me, by the time I finished bathing, the lights were off in our bedroom and Mr. Winkler was out for the count. I quietly slipped into bed, pulled out my laptop, and with only the blue light from my screen to guide me, I started typing away. For some strange reason, capturing the cringe-worthy moments of my day helped quiet my anxious spirit. Journaling made me feel like I was sharing with a girlfriend who listened intently and without judgment as I tried to make sense of midlife’s new normal.

Just as I finished up, a faint knock came at my door.  

“Hi, Olivia,” I said as she poked her head into my bedroom. 

“Hi, Mommy. Just checking to see if you’re okay…and if Daddy’s still breathing,” Olivia whispered, holding back her laughter.

“Very funny, Olivia. I’m okay, and so is Daddy.” I replied with a smirk. “Love you.” 

“Love you more,” she said as she closed the door behind her. 

As I powered off my laptop, a smile spread across my face. If nothing else, my kids sure knew how to roll with the punches. Little Miss Olivia had no idea what she was in for that night, but she’d understand all too well one day. I only hope by then she’ll inhabit a different world—a world where middle-aged women are no longer villainized or made the butt of endless jokes, a world where talking about menopause isn’t frowned upon or considered taboo, and a world where all the tropes of the hysterical, hot-flashing has-been are finally a thing of the past.

Until then, I chuckled to myself, folks better leave my crazy ass alone.

“Peri Winkler” is the creator of Peri-Winkle Wellness, a women’s lifestyle blog that chronicles the mishaps, misadventures, and unexpected joys of perimenopause and midlife

ILLUSTRATION: JOANA MIRANDA