Teenager in Menopause, Part 2

I had my kids in my 30s, and I've never regretted that.

'Til now.

I thought it was a good idea to make sure I was at least somewhat sorted out and settled before trying to sort out and settle a couple of Little People. (Obviously I entertained such thoughts before I actually had any Little People. Once you have them, you realize you have no chance whatsoever of sorting out and/or settling them. You just hope to keep them alive until they can do their own sorting and settling.)

All that worked, as much as anything actually works when you're dealing with actual, still-living Little People, 'til now.

The problem is, I've entered menopause at the same time that Hugh has embarked on Being a Teenager. So the house pulsates with hormones, doors slam, cabinets rattle, the walls endeavor to contain the shrieks and accusations and utter rage--and then Hugh returns home from school. And the hormones and the slamming and the rattling and the shrieking and accusing and raging all multiply to the Hugh-nth degree.

We feed off each other. We feed on each other.

I know what I should be. What I'm supposed to be. What he needs me to be. The impregnable fortress to which he can retreat when he's defeated. The island of calm on which he can rest when he's exhausted. The laughter that reassures him when no one else gets the joke. The boundaries when all the fences seem to be broken and all the lines are muddled.

But I'm not. I am not impregnable. I am not calm. I do laugh, but it's more along the lines of maniacal cackling. I am hopelessly muddled. I can't even figure out what clothes to put on most mornings. I'm a friggin' history professor, for pete's sake. Clothing is not difficult. Docker's and a button-down shirt or long-sleeved tee-shirt, preferably with padded bra in case one gets excited (it's pathetic, but I do get excited when I lecture, not sexually, mind you, but my nipples don't seem to know the difference). This uniform has stood me in good stead for years, but now, every morning, my bedroom looks just like a, yes, a teenaged girl's room--shirts and sweaters and skirts and trousers and tights all scattered about as I frantically hunt for Something To Wear. Geez. I didn't do this when I really was a teenager. Why now? Because I'm insane, that's why.

And a teenaged boy, a genuine teenaged boy, needs a sane mother. If there's a version of What To Expect When You're Expecting for parents of teenagers (there must be by now), I'm sure it says that it is important to be sane. Probably just as important for mothering a teenager as making sure you get enough zinc when you're expecting.

And, when I was expecting, I was utterly scrupulous about taking zinc. (Well, not in Hugh's case, because he's adopted. But dammit, if I'd been pregnant with him, I would have been totally good about the zinc.) So, tomorrow, I'm seeing my doctor. I'll try HRT. Maybe it will make me a fortress or an island. Or at least a little less crazy.

[Teenager in Menopause I]