A Collection of Essays From a Middle Aged Woman, Wife & Mother

I gave birth to my first child at the age of 34. 

Many of my friends had teenagers by then and some were even grandparents.

But not me.

 I had been  far too busy skipping the light fandango and livin’ la vida loca to concern myself with such familial undertakings.

Not to mention, I was far too self-centered, immature and still needed the occasional parenting myself.  

I suppose then, that God in his infinite wisdom and mercy, kept watch over the door of my womb until cosmically and perhaps with a dose of karma as well, everything unfolded at just the right time.

In the weeks preceding the birth, I kept with my mildly obsessive-compulsive nature and read every book on pregnancy and childbirth I could get my hands on. Provided, of course, they explained in excruciating detail what was going to happen to my body, with the development of the child, and most importantly - labor and delivery.

Up until this time, I must confess, I knew nothing about pregnancy and child birth. I had only occasionally queried my own mother about it when growing up.   

“Does it hurt to have a baby, momma?” I would ask, innocently, actually believing that she would - get this - tell me the truth.

And as always, in a quiet voice, laced with a curious surreptitious tone and a strange, nervous tension in the air, she would answer, ”Yes, sweetheart, it hurts. But you can handle it.”

Now, I’m not sure if it was the avoidance of eye contact or the furtive glances she shot my way.

But, I always had the nagging feeling my mother was leaving something out.  

I would reassure myself with the fact that I was the eldest of four and that both my father and mother had come from even larger families.

Clearly, women had been giving birth for generations before me and living to tell about it.

 So, I would shrug off the ominous tension and run out the door in search of the nearest tree.  

Now, completely naive and entirely pregnant and armed only with my books and exactly one piece of sage, ancestral advice - one foreboding issue captured my imagination. 

Exactly how is this baby going to make its way into this world?

Or more specifically: 

how does an orifice that is barely large enough to allow for the passage of a small piece of fruit

- like, I don’t know, say, a banana -

allow for the passage of a piece of biological fruit which weighs on average, 7 to 10 lbs and also has legs, arms, a torso and a head? 

I mean, I was no genius, but it didn’t take an Einstein to figure out that something the size of a bowling ball may have just a wee bit of trouble exiting a hole that was approximately the diameter of a Kennedy silver dollar. 

As one might expect, this held my attention for quite some time.

In hindsight, I realize now, that my fascination with mirrors and the physics of something too large to come out of a tiny hole had distracted me.  I had, at best, only given a cursory consideration to the fact that in a few short months, I would be the mother of a real live baby.  

I knew nothing about pregnancy and childbirth.  But, I knew even less about nursing, bottles, feeding schedules, naps, diapers, burping, swaddling and just the general maintenance and upkeep of a baby.   

But no worries.

I relied heavily on television commercials for that - especially the one on Downy fabric softener. 

You know, the one with the soft camera lens focused on the serenely contented mother in her beautiful, white, lacy gown, rocking and cooing tenderly over her blissfully happy newborn?

You’ve seen that one right?  Yeah, me too.  And so, lucky for me, the advent of television and commercial advertising allowed me to focus on far more important issues  -  like that small hole. 

I remember the day of reckoning well.  It was Sunday, June 16, 1991.  Approximately two weeks before my due date.

It was a typical, balmy, summer day in Louisiana.  Soaking humidity and sweltering heat hung in the air.  I was swollen and full to capacity with child. 

Under normal circumstances, such heat and humidity would have rendered me completely incapable of doing much more than waddling from air conditioned room to air conditioned room, with little energy to spare.

So, it seemed peculiar that I would wake with an overwhelming and compelling urge to clean every square inch of my house.  But I did.

I had heard of this phenomenon called nesting.  Supposedly, it’s Mother Nature’s way of signaling an impending birth.

I can’t vouch for its validity or truth one way or the other; I just know that when I rolled out of bed that day I was searching for a toothbrush, knee pads and a fine tooth comb. 

Every dust mite must be found. 

Every picture on every wall must be perfectly aligned with the gravitational pull of the planets.

Every corner, nook and cranny must be meticulously swept, vacuumed and polished.

And every single drawer must be emptied and reorganized.

Even those in the far recesses of the house that no one ever opened unless they were looking for a piece of string or a spare button or something.

You never know.  I might actually need a piece of string or spare button in the coming days.  

So, I called upon one very loyal friend, who by the way, had also never given birth, to come over and help me prepare for the impending arrival of the fruit of my womb - which had a head.

Not that I was thinking about it or anything.

She kindly obliged and we commenced to crawling, scrubbing, wiping and polishing with great gusto.  Or at least, she did.

I was busy running back and forth to the bathroom.

During one of my frequent trips, I happened to hear a curious popping sound which gave way to a sudden and unexpected gush of water.

Wondering if the weight of this fetus had finally ruptured my bladder and my death was imminent, I peered anxiously into the toilet.

Huh.

It didn’t look like urine. It didn’t have the unique olfactory elements of urine.  And it didn’t exactly feel like it had come from the little urine place either. 

No, this had come from that other place.  The place where the 7 to 10 lb fruit of the womb would be arriving from very soon.  Like it or not.

A swell of anxiety and fear washed over me like a tsunami. Dizzy with the realization I was about to have a bono-fide “Come to Jesus” moment, I clutched the counter to steady myself.

Once composed, I waddled back into the room where my loyal friend was furiously scrubbing the floors, leaving a dribbling trail of water behind me.      

“I think my water broke,” I said to my friend, who looked up with beads of sweat gathering on her upper lip and her round eyes widening into saucers.

“Okay” she said, with a discernable hint of panic in her voice.  “What do we do?”

“I don’t know,” I answered as I turned on my heels and waddled back to the bathroom with visions of silver dollars and 7 to 10 lb pieces of fruit fogging my thinking. 

The memory of what happened in the subsequent hours of that day has long since faded.

It’s been 17 years and two more kids later. But, I do remember enough to know that the orifice I was so obsessed with was actually a musical instrument and a canal – all at the same time.

Yes, it’s true.  The inside of that place had all these little folds that expanded and stretched,  much like an accordion, the doctor said, which made the passage of my little  7 to 10 lb biological fruit with legs, arms, torso and head, not as difficult as I had imagined.

Or perhaps it was just the Demerol.

I also remember the doctor saying something about the “birth canal”. 

Funny.

I had always associated canals with Venetian gondolas and singing gondoliers.

But, I guess if you think about it, it makes sense. 

I mean there was water in there.  

It took approximately 2 ½ hours for my little gondolier to sing his way right out of that canal – to the accompaniment of an accordion, no doubt.

All of those weeks and months of anticipation had finally reached the pinnacle – I had given birth. 

Was it everything I had imagined?  No.  Did it occur in the fashion that I had prepared myself for?  No.

In fact, as I lay on that table while the doctor and nurses hummed around in a post-partum flurry of activity, I felt betrayed, misled and lied to.

It had hurt like hell first of all.  Whoever said that labor and delivery felt like pressure needed to have their head examined. And they sure didn’t need to be writing any books.

The only “P” word that comes to mind with labor and deliver is p-a-i-n. 

And this notion that I was going to be an active participant in the birth of this child? 

Pure and utter nonsense.

Anyone who preached this half-baked piece of hooey had clearly never seen a uterus in action.

Rising and falling in perfect rhythm with the 100 ton force of a pile driver, it was clear that no help was needed from me.

My body was in charge and the baby was going to be born. I was just along for the ride. 

But, when they lay that little guy in my arms and our eyes met for the first time, there was one truth that was undeniable.

God had brought us together.  Perfectly.  At the right place.  At the right moment.  At the right time.

I was his and he was mine. 

A miracle had occurred that only the deepest wisdom of the universe could comprehend.  Two hearts had been inexplicably woven together.  Forever.

He is a son.  I am a mother.   

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I’m not sure exactly when it happened.  When elastic and I became friends that is.  

But, I think it was some time in my 40’s.

Or maybe it was somewhere between a size 12 and 14. 

I had always heard about elastic.  In fact, we even had mutual friends. They always said how much they loved elastic.  How comfortable the friendship was - how relaxed and free. You could just let it all hang out.  

I thought about getting to know elastic, but truthfully, I didn’t think we had much in common.  We had different lifestyles. We had different tastes.  It just didn’t seem like a good fit. So I didn’t.

But then, one day, when I was in a real bind, I realized what I needed more than anything was a friend.

So, I thought maybe I might try to get to know elastic.

“You never know,”  I thought. “You might actually like elastic” 

Well, sure enough, I discovered everything I had heard was true.  Not only was elastic an easy going and comfortable friend, but a very accepting and giving one as well - unlike my other friends who could sometimes be stiff and uptight. 

I began to love hanging out with elastic.  I mean, who wouldn’t?  No more airs, no more pretending, no more sucking up who I really was just to fit in. I felt like I had finally found a true friend. A friend who accepted me for exactly who I was.

Now, I try to see elastic every day. But, if I get busy and can’t, it’s okay.  Elastic is flexible.  Or if I’m in a crappy mood and just need to be by myself, elastic is understanding and gives me room.  

Or, if I am being selfish and demanding, and our relationship becomes strained, that’s okay too. Because elastic is forgiving and bounces back easily.  Just the way a friend should be.

When I was younger, I didn’t appreciate friends like elastic.

Like most young people, I spent way too much time focusing on outward appearances. Trying to be cool - even though it felt awkward and uncomfortable.

I would have been too embarrassed to be friends with elastic.  People would have laughed at me - maybe even rejected me.

I hadn’t learned that a true friend is one who accepts you for who you really are and is always there for you. No matter what.

I’ve grown up since then. Now, I’m proud to call elastic my friend. I don’t care what others think or if they laugh or if they think I’m not hip or cool.

I’m more interested in honest relationships and that is what elastic and I have.  No games, no entanglements.  Just supportive and genuine.  Always there for each other - through thick and thin.

That’s a friend.  That’s elastic.

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Well, ladies, I thought I might start posting some recipes from the Belly Fat to Belly Flat book.  If you’re not inclined to buy the book, you can enjoy some of the recipes on me.  I will try to post a new on each week.

I’ve always said that if forced to survive on fish and vegetables the rest of my life, I wouldn’t complain - provided I always had a caraf of my favorite red wine handy. 

If you’re in a hurry and want something easy, tasty and good for what ails ya, this will do the trick.

Baked Fish with Basil

Organic nonstick cooking spray

6 6-oz fish filets

1 cup chopped fresh basil

1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil

2 T minced garlic

1 T lemon juice

Salt & Pepper to taste

1 lemon, sliced

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.  Place fish filets in baking dish that you’ve sprayed with organice cooking spray.  Combine basil, olive oil, garlic, and lemon juice in a small bowl.  Mix well and spoon evenly over fish.  Add salt & pepper.  Bake for 20 - 25 minutes, until the fish flakes easily with a fork.  Garnish with lemon slices and serve.  Makes 6 servings.

Nutrition Facts:

Amount per serving:  Calories 250 - Calories from fat 110 - Total fat 12 g Saturated fat 2.5 g - Cholesterol 85 mg - Sodium 90 mg - Total Carbohydrate 1 g Dietary Fiber 0 g - Sugar 0 g - Protein 35 g - Calcium 4% DV

Source: Randolph, C.W., M.D. from Belly Fat to Belly Flat.  Health Communications, Inc., 2008.

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 Okay, kids, everybody sit down and brace yourselves.  This one is going to be tough.

After 7 months of wedded bliss, Ivana Trump and her 4th husband, 35 year old Rossano Rubicondi, are separated and getting a divorce.

Yeah, I know.  Shocking isn’t it?  But, here’s what I want to know:

“Why in the world can’t a 60 year old woman and her 35 year old child, umm, husband, make it work?”

I mean, really! We’re a modern society.  Right?  If a 60 year old woman wants to marry a man that is the same age as her children she should be able to.  Right?  It’s not like she’s too old for him or anything.  

But I guess that’s neither here nor there now, because Ivana has already moved on and is currently finding comfort and solace in the arms of another child, man.  

Umm hmm.  She sure has.  Quicker than you can say, “pass the baby wipes,” 60 year old Ivana Trump is nursing her broken heart in the arms of 22 year old French fashion model, John-David Dery. (What? You don’t believe me?  Here. )

Hmm, let’s see…..if my calculations are correct, then that would be about a 1, 2, 3, 10, 20, 30…………38 year age difference.

So take that Rossano Rubicondi, you aging 35 year old!

But, hey, you’ve got to hand it to Ivana.  She once said she would rather be a babysitter than a nursemaid.  She’s consistent.

Okay, look, I’ve said this before. I think Ivana is alright.  I really do. She’s beautiful, she’s smart and she made me laugh in the movie The First Wives Club when she famously said……”Dahling, don’t get mad, get everything.”

I’ve also said that if she wants to marry a 35 year old - go for it.  Far be it from me to judge or even care. And I don’t.  For the most part.

But, twenty-two?  Ivana, this is getting just a tad bit ridiculous, don’t you think? 

I know, I know, men get to do this all the time - Hugh Hefner comes to mind. So perhaps Ivana is making a statement that if Hef can do it, well, by golly, she can too.  But it just seems to me that there comes a time in one’s life where such behavior makes you look more like a caricature than enlightened - Hef included. 

And, no, I don’t think we should just pull up stakes, roll up the sidewalk and pack it in when we hit a certain age. 

Because, like I’ve also said before, I’ve married a younger man myself.

But, I do think that if you are 60 years old and you’re seeking affirmation in the arms of a 22 year old?  Well, honey, you might want to rethink a few things.  I don’t know, girl, I’m just sayin’.

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Well, ladies, here we are.  We’ve finally come to the end.

Yes, yes, I know it has taken me a while to get here.  I’m a bit slow out of the gate these days. But I’m here and ready to wrap up the series with some final thoughts.

First, I hope, in my own Magnolia way, I’ve been able to provide enough information, insight and direction with this series, and that you’ve been able to glean something useful and valuable.

At the very least, I hope I’ve been able to point you to more resources and other sites that can help you as well.

I am not, as my standard disclaimer is, medically trained. Nor am I a clinician.  Sometimes I wish I were.  Especially if I thought it could help you more.

I can only give you the best that I have - my hard won insight and the benefit of my personal experience. 

So, in that regard, please take what you can from The Magnolia Diaries and leave the rest. 

The Conclusion of the Matter  

Perimenopause, as we have learned, is no easy row to hoe. 

Its roller coaster ups and downs, cruel unpredictability and unrelenting torrent of raging hormones leave so many of us feeling we’ve been to hell and back.

And we didn’t even get a t-shirt to show for it.

We battle our way through the night sweats, the hot flashes and the mood swings, only to be left with the deadness of our womb.

Is it any wonder then, that so many of us get depressed? 

And just when you think you have this thing whipped into shaped, perimenopause makes one last demand:  A paradigm shift. 

That’s right.

Your fertility has ceased, the aging process is clearly underway and now you’ve got at least 45 to 50 years under your belt.  You are officially middle-aged.

But the real kicker? Previous definitions, assumptions and beliefs no longer apply.

Many women, myself included, begin the process of completely re-evaluating their entires lives.  Questions that you thought had long been answered are now being revisited - along with a few new ones as well. 

A self-image that has evolved in large part out of our fertility is forced to be redefined. 

Questions like, “Am I still beautiful? ”  “Will I still be desirable?”  and the proverbial,  ”Just who the hell am I anyway? “ are just a few that many women ask.

We transition from mother to grandmother and sometimes from wife to caretaker. Needless to say, coming to grips with so much loss and change can be emotionally overwhelming and daunting. 

And it just seems so unfair at times.  I mean, isn’t it enough that we’ve lost our fertility, our hair is turning gray and that we hardly recognize our bodies anymore? 

Now we get to have an existential crisis too ?  Say it ain’t so. 

Unfortunately, it is.  The life that we once knew is over. The years that have brought us to this point have essentially abandoned us at the door and we get to figure it out all over again.

But take heart menopause mavens, there is an upside.

After every ending there is a new beginning and this new beginning marks the second half of our lives.

I like to call it Volume II. You can too if you would like.  After all, with everything you’ve been through to get here, you can call it any damn thing you want as far as I’m concerned.  You’ve earned it.

You’ve also earned the distinct advantage of being able to begin this volume with the hard won experience and knowledge acquired in Volume I.

So you’re not exactly going into this one blind, you know? 

And since it’s your story, you get to edit.  Heck, you can even re-edit if you want.

And if that’s not enough, just go ahead rewrite the entire narrative.  It’s yours to rewrite. 

It’s also your voice and your prose. And the wisdom of your years will give it the perfect rhythm and the perfect meter. 

You can decide who the characters will be and how they will be written into the story.  Or you can decide to not write them in at all.  In short,  ( pardon the pun ) write it any way you want.  Yeah.  Go ahead.

Think of it as your reward for persevering, enduring and making it through to the other side - and, God help us, for not murdering any immediate family members along the way. ( Can I hear an amen sistahs? )

Even though middle-age and perimenopause  ( with its rabble rousing band of hormonal gypsies ) has likely left us feeling a bit worn,  a little tattered, and maybe exposing a bit of our shelf wear, we can still be thankful.

We’ve lived long enough to know that you cannot judge a book by its cover. 

Shiney jackets, glossy images, catchy titles or even a fancy leather binding do not gurantee a good read.

Instead, it is in the details of the story and how is it told that brings it to life and captures the imagination. 

So, in some weird way, we can actually thank perimenopause. Because, without having experienced it, we wouldn’t be here.

And if we weren’t here, we wouldn’t be as seasoned, interesting or tethered to the things in life that gives us the material to craft Volume II . 

Yes, it’s been tough, and maybe if we had been given a choice, we might have chosen differently. 

But we weren’t and we didn’t, and so here we are:  Mature and middle-aged  with a story to tell.

And boy, is it a page turner.

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Well, it’s true.

Good things really do come to those who wait.

It’s just been too quiet around here lately. 

Hollywood has been chugging along all “normal” and everything and I’ve been having a tough time finding something to say about those whacky celebrities out in La-La Land.  

But, just when I was beginning to think I was going to have to make something up  - BAM!  It happened.

It fell out of the sky like manna from heaven.  I have something to write about.  And it’s good.

But the best thing?  I didn’t have to make it up.

In case you haven’t heard, (cause, what, you don’t sit around holding your breath waiting for this information?) a new celebrity baby has been born.

That’s right. 

Out of the primordial vibration of the universe, a new, heavenly zenith has risen once again on the Hollywood horizon.

Okay, I’ll admit it. It’s not exactly the Dawning of the Age of Aquarius or anything, but it’s close.

The stars and planets aligned in perfect celestial harmony and his name is - hold onto your telescopes star gazers -

Bronx Mowgli Wentz.

Uh huh.  You heard me.  Bronx Mowgli Wentz.  I swear.

And yes, that would be Bronx, as in the New York City borough, and Mowgli, the ummm……..Disney character.

See.  I told you.  You can’t make this stuff up.

Okay, so before I get started, here’s my standard disclaimer:  I’m not a baby basher.  I love babies.  All babies.  All babies are cute.  Even the ugly ones. 

But………. Mowgli??!!??  Oh, for the love of……….

Bronx - just the bare necessities - Mowgli, is the first born child of Ashlee Simpson, the younger sister of Jessica , and Pete Wentz, a musician in the band, The Fallout Boys. 

The little fella made his way into this world on Thursday, November 20th, weighing in at 7 lbs 11 ozs.

Baby and mom are resting fine - as it is always said.

(And the rest of us are choking to keep from spewing our coffee all over our computer screens.  But anyway. )

So I’m thinking: “This has GOT to be the humdinger of humdinger’s when it comes to those whacky Hollywood baby names.”

I mean, really.  How weird can you get? 

Or maybe I’ve just gotten a bit desensitized these days?  You know, with Demi’s girls, Rumer, Scout and Tallulah Belle along with Gwen Stefani’s “Zuma Nesta Rock” (yes, she really named her son Zuma Nesta Rock. ) even Phinneaus and Apple was starting to sound okay to me.

But Mowgli?  This one officially takes the cake. 

Well, I couldn’t help myself.

So I did a lil’ search on the internet.

And guess what? 

Not only is Mowgli not the weirdest Hollywood name, but, comparatively speaking?  It’s actually quite normal.  Check this out.

Bronx Mowgli will be able to hook-up for some hip Hollywood play dates with actor Rob Morrow’s child - Tu Morrow. 

Yeah, I know what you’re thinking: “Mags, the boy was just born.  He can’t do play dates tomorrow for crying out loud!  Give him a few years.”

No.  I mean the child’s name is Tu Morrow.  Clever, huh?  But wait, it gets better. 

Actress Shannon Sossomon’s son is the only kid in town whose play dates are in state of the art surround sound.  But, it’s not because he majored in Audio Science in college or anything.

It’s because that’s his name.  Umm hmm.  Audio Science.  But, hey, Pete’s a musician. (Hello?) It could work.

And what little boy doesn’t love action heroes?  Pete and Ashlee can actually call up Penn Jillette to see if little Moxie Crime Fighter can come out to play.

That’s right!

Just move on over Spiderman, Ironman & The Incredible Hulk! 

Moxie Crime Fighter is in town and he fights crime with, well, moxie.

And then there’s Sylvester Stallone’s daughter - Sage Moonblood. 

I mean, come on, Sly.

With Tu Morrow, Audio Science and Moxie Crime Fighter in the neighborhood, doncha think that Sage Moonblood sounds just a tad bit ordinary?

But then, with Rocky Balboa as a father, I guess she should just be thankful she didn’t get stuck with something really weird, like….Adrian.

Could you imagine?

Hey, I know.  By now you’re all probably thinking….”Okay Mags, enough fun and games. No one in their right mind would do that to a child” 

To which, I would say, “Oh reeeally?  Then look  here  and read it for yourself.” 

Afterall, I haven’t even mentioned Pilot Inspektor, Fifi Trixiebelle, Memphis Eve or Jermajesty.

Because, frankly, some things should just never be said outloud.

But, I did save the best for last.

That’s right faithful Magnolia Diaries readers.  Only the best for you and trust me, it doesn’t get any better than this.

So are you ready?

Kyd. 

Yep.  That’s right.  Kyd. 

Now, wait.  Before you go all perimenopausal on me and say something like….”Kyd?  So?”  Hear me out okay?  Like everything in life, it’s all in how you frame it.

Think about this.

How many times, in one of your short-term-perimenopausal-induced-memory-lapses have you looked at the fruit of your womb and couldn’t for the life of you remember their name?

Huh?  Am I right? 

Well, you can thank Tia Leoni & David Duchovny for solving this problem once and for all.

I mean, you’re bound to end up saying it eventually anyway right? 

“Hey, Kyd, can you come over here please?” 

See?  Brilliant.  And the best thing?  It’s gender-neutral.  Boys.  Girls.   Works for everybody.  And if you have more than one Kyd, well then, you can also have a Kyd-O as well.

Okay.  Alright.  All kydding aside.  I’m sure Ashlee & Pete’s little boy is cute as a button and he’s clearly heaven sent.  So, congrats are definately in order.

I guess I’m just not feelin’ these modern names and I’m sure it’s my age. I don’t understand what is wrong with Karen or Sue or even Bob.

Maybe I’m just longing for the days when it only got as weird as knowing someone named Richard Head and calling him Dick for short. 

Yeah, I know.  So ordinary.  So mundane.  But that was the best we had.

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Well, we’ve defined it.  We’ve discussed it.  We’ve even looked at some of the ways it manifests itself.  By now, I hope many of you have found some comfort in our sisterhood, as we slog our way through this hormonal mine field called perimenopause.

As I often say, my foremost goal is to always let you know that you are not alone. I will give you permission to suffer in all of your womanly glory here.  Whatever you feel, however you feel and the degree to which you feel it - it is okay.

Frankly, perimenopause sucks.  And, it is not in me to gloss over or candy coat what can be a hellish time for so many women.  

You may own your suffering here at The Magnolia Diaries. You may also embrace it   -  but not too tightly.  Yes, ladies, as tempting as it is, let us not wallow.

Wallowing will not help us to feel better and, well, I’m assuming you are here because you want to feel better.  Right?

So, what can we do? 

First and foremost, a touch of optimism and forward thinking is a great place to start.

Because, unfortunately, there is a certain amount of misery that we must simply accept and endure.  We are no longer in our twenties or our thirties.

Aging is our very present reality and if we wish to move forward in a healthy way, then we must accept a few things.

Yes, I realize, this is not good news and I can hear the wails of despair echoing through the halls of cyberspace as I type.  But, let’s look this thing straight in the eye, shall we? 

 We stand a much better chance of subduing this biological monster if we will just get honest and face the cold, hard facts.  

Your body is changing.  It is changing whether you want it to or not.  It is not a change that you can stop or a change you can control. You can, however, educate yourself.  And in so doing, you can minimize and in some cases, even eradicate many of your symptoms.

Knowledge is power. In educating ourselves, we gain knowledge.

In gaining knowledge, we also gain power in a situation that has often left us feeling power-less.

Feeling that we have some measure of control can, and often does, help to reduce a lot of stress.

And don’t we all want to reduce stress?  Can I hear an amen menopause mavens?

Because it can be down right daunting and damn near impossible to sort through all of the information available on perimenopause, I will not burden you with even more. 

Instead, I would like to direct you to a few books that have been extremely helpful and useful to many, many women - myself included.  They are not the final authority on the subject of perimenopause nor are they an exhaustive resource.

They are simply, a great starting point to help you sort through and make sense of all of the chaotic changes that are happening in your body.

What Your Doctor May Not Tell You About Menopause: The Breakthrough Book on Natural Progesterone, by Dr. John R. Lee, has become the bible on the subject of estrogen dominance during perimenopause. 

Dr. Lee makes a clear and convincing case that it is estrogen dominance, due to decreasing levels of progesterone, that brings about the lion’s share of complaints women have during perimenopause, rather than low levels of estrogen as previously thought.

Estrogen dominance is responsible for breast tenderness, depression, unwanted weight gain, foggy thinking, irritability and decreased sex drive, just to name a few.

With more and more women abandoning traditional Hormone Replacement Therapy for more natural remedies, Dr. Lee’s book provides a wealth of knowledge and natural alternatives.

Dr. Ann Louise Gittleman, PH.D & C.N.S. is the author of the New York Times bestseller, Before the Change: Taking Charge of Your Perimenopause.  As a nutritionist, Dr. Gittleman also lays out the link between estrogen dominance and perimenopausal misery, offering women not only natural alternatives, but a diet plan that can help stabilize and rejuvenate our hormonally wracked bodies.

Dr. Gittleman’s “All Star Peri Zappers” offer natural ways to attack specific hormonal symptoms with ”tips and recipes for foods that prevent and alleviate symptoms…………”

Dr. Gittleman not only examines traditional Hormone Replacement Therapy in light of current medical research, but she also details safe and natural alternatives as well. 

Taking charge in our lives is exactly what women need to do during this tumultuous time and Dr. Gittleman’s book gives women the knowledge and absolute permission to do just that.

From Belly Fat to Belly Flat  by C.W. Randolph, M.D. is a book I ran across recently in my desperation to rid myself of this ring of fat I’ve been toting around my mid-section for the last 10 years.

I have dieted, I have exercised and I had just about given up in my efforts to try and regain what was once a nice flat stomach on this middle-aged body. 

Dr. Randolph discusses the role of hormones in our lives and how the roller coaster frolic of estrogen and progesterone during perimenopause is the culprit to our thickening middle. (You mean it’s not  because of wine & chocolate????  YEAH!)

Filled full of excellent recipes, From Belly Fat to Belly Flat is a book that is not only practical, but realistic.  There are no esoteric recipes to be found here ladies. Just good, healthy food that we can find in any grocery store that promises to bust the fat and help us find our way to a flatter stomach. 

I don’t know about you, but I’m darn sick of feeling pregnant and looking as if I’m about to give birth at any time with this estrogen blown mid-section of mine.  So, I would highly recommend this book if you are as fed up with it as I am. It is an excellent book and is one of the best I’ve found to date in dealing with perimenopause weight gain.

So, there you have it ladies.  Hopefully, I’ve been able to point you in a positive direction and provide some useful and helpful resources as you navigate your way through perimenopause.

It is at times a difficult journey, I will give you that, but it is a journey that we must all make if we are to move into Volume II of our lives.  Change is not always easy, but change can always bring growth and a new and fresh perspective on our future, if we allow it. 

So, let’s not avoid this change, let’s embrace it.  We are guaranteed a better outcome in our next chapter if we do.

Look for the final post in Perimenopause The Series soon, with some final thoughts from Magnolia on the matter. 

Till then, menopause mavens

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Okay, I’m back.  Yes, yes, I’m slow, but, hey, I’m here aren’t I?

Let me begin by saying that I can rarely approach this subject without the nagging feeling that I’m likely rehashing a lot of information that many of you already know.

The subject of perimenopause and the symptoms is not new.  Thanks to the Internet and the fact that more and more women are sounding the drum looking for help, there is no shortage of useful and helpful information.

Hundreds, if not thousands of blogs and websites are devoted to perimenopause and women’s issues, providing us with much needed help and answers. 

My motive, however, is not to provide you with new and ground breaking information, nor do I wish to provide clinical or medical help.  Rather I wish to provide solace, comfort, encouragement and a little bit of “I hear ya” . 

I just want you to know that someone is in your ball court, rooting for you. I believe women need solidarity. We need to be understood and we need to know that “someone gets it”.  So, if I accomplish nothing else outside of helping you feel that you are not alone, then for me, it is a job well done.

So, let’s begin shall we?

Along with a comfortable pair of shoes and one snazzy handbag I firmly believe that one of the greatest accessories perimenopausal women should have is a sense of humor.

Because, let’s face it, there are days and times during this period of our lives ( no pun intended ) where you are convinced that you are absolutely going crazy as the hormonal bottom seems to fall out of your life.

Gone are the days of a consistent 28-day cycle, measurable fertility windows and the serenity and clarity of hormonal balance.  In its stead is a riotous and raucous display of biological chaos, rumbling and marauding through your life like a band of rowdy children.

The term “mood swings” hardly seems sufficient to explain what happens to your emotional make-up during perimenopause.  Flailing like a wrecking ball from one polar extreme to the other, “mood slamming” seems a much more apropos description. 

What was once termed, “irritability” with simple PMS has morphed into full on, assault rages and what we used to call “a mild case of the blues” has become crippling depression washing over you like an emotional tsunami.

Your body temperature remains at a consistent H-O-T, no matter what the season, and you’re slugging through your day, bleary eyed and exhausted after nights of thrashing in your bed with insomnia and night sweats. 

Your once familiar daily life begins to feel more like deja-vu as the mental fog settles like a heavy blanket over your once sharp brain functions.

Rendered completely incapable of recalling any word that is used to describe a “person, place or a thing”, a brand new vocabulary emerges with words such as, “doo-hicky”, thinga-ma-bob and what-cha-ma-callit” 

Staring blankly into the air as you wait for just the right word to pop into your mind, you can’t help but feel like you are waiting for the bus, as the vowels and consonants take their sweet time forming a recognizable word in your short-term memory.

The simple smell of food seems to be enough to pack on the pounds around your mid-section and your bloating stomach could double as a life saving flotation device in the event of a sinking ship.  And a sex drive????? Fugettaboutit!

Everything that once was, no longer is. The only thing predictable now is the unpredictability.

And try, try as you may to anticipate the next invasion of the body snatchers each month, in hopes you can regain some control over your life, you quickly learn that your body is not playing fair anymore.

The once, clearly defined biological rules of engagement, no longer apply.  It’s nothing short of hormonal terrorism and gorilla warfare.  Anything goes - and you lose.

Sound familiar ladies?  If so, welcome to perimenopause. 

Hopefully, if you’ve seen yourself in any of these scenarios, you’ve been able to laugh.  Laughter can be a healing balm when it comes to coping with difficulty in our lives and there is no question that perimenopause can be very difficult for many women.

I’ve cursed Eve and wanted to shoot my own Adam during some of my more trying times and racing to the nearest OB/GYN to beg for a hysterectomy crossed my mind on more than one occasion.  And yet, here I sit, a witness to the fact that “this too shall pass”. 

Though I am not completely menopausal just yet, I can tell you with a certainty that my “new normal” is beginning to take shape in my life and I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. 

No more crazy mood swings, no more soaking night sweats and hot flashes, and I can actually carry on a decent conversation without struggling to form a complete sentence.

Though you may feel as if you are drowning in your progesterone and estrogen bath right now, I can assure you that if you continue to put one foot in front of the other, you will eventually find yourself on the other side.

We have survived our teen adolescence and we will survive our middle age adolescence as well. 

I have not included all of the symptoms of perimenopause, because as you might know, the list can be long and varied, depending on the woman.  One of my favorite sites is Project Aware. 

They have an excellent list of symptoms and complaints that you can find here.  In addition, there are many links within the list that elaborate and provide more in- depth information if you desire it.

In addition, be sure and check out Menopause the Blog and Women’s Health News  (found also in my blog roll) for current and up to date health and medical information on perimenopause and menopause.

And if you are looking for even more encouragement and sisterhood during these times, always go over and say “hey” to Eileen at The Feisty Side of Fifty 

Eileen is helping to lead the way for the rest of us and she never ceases to provide a chuckle and a laugh in the process.

As for perimenopause the series…………you can check back with me for a follow up post on some of the things you can do to help yourself through this time.  Diet, exercise and supplements can work wonders and there is no shortage of things you can do.

Again, let me make it very clear, I’m not a clinician or medical doctor.  I will share with you some of the things I have done and hopefully, it will help you to do more research for yourself and find what works for you.

Come back soon…………till then

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In the neighbor - hood that is. So, every morning I check my blog for comments and traffic and today I found some information about a website that has me in the blogroll.

Being the curious sort that I am, I followed the trail and low and behold came upon a really cool website.  I’m not sure how they found me, but, I’m glad that I found them right back, and thought I would list them in my blogroll as well to return the favor.

It’s a pretty neat site, so check it out.  It’s called Define Yourself.

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