“I just don’t feel like you love me anymore.”
Wife’s words, not Bub’s—that would be some sort of minor miracle, albeit an unappreciative one. I wasn’t sure which was worse at that moment.
What do you mean? I countered. You’re the greatest, you’re my favorite, you’re the yolk in my egg, the peanut in my brittle, the Wang in my Chung.
“You say that, but I just don’t feel it.” She was crying now. Uh oh. What was going on here? Did I forget to hang up my towel again? Wash the milk bottles? Bub, you coulda given Daddy a heads-up, here.We were on the phone, of course.
“You spend all your time with Bub and give him all your love and there’s none left for meeeeeee.”
Wow, this matchstick could easily scorch acres of innocent family forest if not quickly doused. Think, dummy! It was like being ambushed in a war in which I wasn’t participating; I was just trying to figure out where the shots were coming from, why they were shooting.
So I just started talking. Love Bub, yes, not a competition, no, room in my little heart for both of you, yes, there’s plenty left for you, yes. And so on.
“I think I’m PMS-ing,” she blubbered, almost like an afterthought. Oh, gee, that might have been some nice information to have about ninety seconds ago, don’t you think? I felt like that guy in the phone commercial who doesn’t get the text, shows up uninvited to the taco party. I like tacos.
We’d gotten spoiled. She hasn’t had her period in probably a year and a half, and, ergo, none of our old friend PMS, either. And while there were some wacky pregnancy hormones, they were usually pretty mundane (‘I hate you, buy me Ruffles!’), or could at least be rationalized.
That’s why this caught us (speaking for wife here) so off-guard. We knew that as breastfeeding came to a close, her cycle would in fact start again. It’s science. But did it have to start so angrily? It’s like Ms. PMS was making up for lost time, coming home for vengeance.
Sounds like a movie trailer doesn’t it? Shunned, unwanted, nowhere to go, she ran away from home. But after 18 months on the cold, hard streets, she came back. Older, meaner, with a serious chip on her syndrome. She came home to settle the score. PPPMS. Post-Pregnancy PMS, the sequel. Playing at a theater near you, but only if she feels like it, and there’s lots of chocolate.
Well, I can’t really say you were missed, PMS. Sorry, just being honest here. Some people you lose touch with for a reason. Then when you see them again, it’s like, hey, I remember you. Yeah, me, too. Yeah, good talk—all right, well Facebook me. When you really think about it, PMS, I don’t think we ever had that much in common, you and I. Never really hung with the same crowd, weren’t into the same things. I liked Vonnegut, you liked tripping kids in the hallway and playing knuckles for money.
I’m starting to see you as more like NASCAR highlights on Sportscenter, PMS: You’re just not going to go away, even though nobody likes you. All we can do is try to get along, right? And let the crazy fall where it may. See you next month, buddy.