is for the birds. And I am going to use a word here that I hate, but it's really the only one that can adequately describe HRT - Sucks BIG time.
I mean it has always been my dream to break out like I never did as a teen, to daily restrain the raging bull in my brain, to FREAK over the merest sound resembling the smacking of lips or the licking of fingers, not to mention the frequent, unexpected (albeit brief) drop-ins from Aunt Flo.
Also, I'm too young to be needing this. At all other times I feel old such as -
when my son slow dances for the first time with a girl and realizes that girls aren't half bad,
or when I have a sick toddler who requires me to get out of bed as soon as my head hits the pillow (late into the night) just so she can hear my voice soothing her just before she slips back into her fitful sleep,
and when I have to get up the next morning to run the girls to dance class and 9:00 AM feels strangely like 5:00 AM,
or when I actually do lie down to sleep and hurt in places I forgot I had just because I heeded the call of gardening and yard work,
you know?
So anyway, I am not yet 40 but feeling rather 70-ish (which I realize is not old but is so far away it feels ancient). Supposedly, the hormone therapy will make it easier for me to get fit, will help me sleep (hah!) better, and perhaps regulate, erm, things. I just hope Mr. O sticks around long enough for us to see if it will really work.
I give you exhibit A:
The other day cascaded into a spectacular meltdown. It started with me trying to get Spielberg to help me move Ty into the family room. He could not understand what I was asking him to do and so in a fit of frustration (and also superhuman strength) I picked up Ty myself (all 80 lbs, 5'2" of him) and tried to do it myself.
It was a monumental mom FAIL. I had to turn sideways to get him through the door, but at the same time I had to make sure I didn't bump his feet on the bed, hurting his hip (the one that's dislocated). Only thing is I didn't keep track of his head and he's grown some since I did it myself last so I accidentally bumped his head on the door frame. See? Mom FAIL.
I can't tell you how bad I felt because I know it hurt and it was a direct result of my impatience. Sigh.
Once I managed to get him out the door and on to the couch, I got upset (loudly) at Spielberg like it was his fault. It was all downhill from there. I launched into how nobody's room was clean enough, no child appreciated anything, and, in fact, they were all welcome to go to boarding school/boot camp and see just how tough life could be.
I know. You all want me to be *your* mother now.
I'm giving this treatment one more month. If I can't figure out how to keep all my marbles contained I don't care how many pounds stay put, it's just not worth it. I'd much rather be a sane, although lumpy, cookie-making grandma. Besides, who wants to cuddle with a bony granny?
