My Aunt Flo is due to visit tomorrow, and I have to say I’m just a bundle of anxiety. I don’t know why I’m surprised. It’s always like this, even though she comes every month. Still, somehow I’m consistently taken off guard and unprepared for her visit. I fidget nervously. I’m a bit on edge. Nothing seems right and I have to fix everything before she arrives. Everything!
The pictures on the wall have magically all tilted overnight, and there’s cat hair all over the place. It’s also apparently too difficult for anyone to put their cereal bowls in the sink, or manage to reach the hamper with their dirty underwear. Seriously, are those extra two inches just too much?
Don’t they realize the stress I’m under? She’ll be here any minute.
“Is something wrong?” My husband asks, as I straighten the toys up for the kabillenth time, huffing and puffing and deep sighing, tossing toys with gusto into their bins. Stupid Superman figure. His face is so annoying. He makes me sick. I hurl him into the bin.
“What do you mean?” I snap. “Nothing’s wrong. It’s the same old wrong of every day. Why are you badgering me?!”
He looks afraid, and slowly backs away.
“Where is the freaking phone?” I yell to the air. I was holding it a second ago. A second! Oh, it’s still in my hand. My bad.
There’s too much to do. I need something to eat. And it has to be sweet. I need it right now. I head to freezer and take out my ice cream tub and spoon out five scoops to my usual three, then reconsider, and add another scoop. I shove the container back into the freezer but something is wrong. It doesn’t close properly no matter how much I slam it. I slam it again! It’s not closing! I can not deal with that right now! I need to eat.
I’m consuming my bowl unconsciously; my brain thinking ahead of all the things that need to be done that aren’t done, and all the things wrong that might never be right, when my son comes in and asks for a cup of milk.
I nod, and reach into the fridge, but there is no milk. There is no milk! How did I let that happen? I’m usually so on top of stuff like that. I am a terrible mom. How do I not have milk for my children?
Tears start to well.
“I’ll have juice, mommy.” My son says, sensing my distress. Overwhelmingly grateful for my sensitive child, I hand him a little box of juice and he runs away happy. He’s so good and sweet. I’m so bad and disgusting.
When my husband comes back in, he finds me sobbing, kicking the freezer door trying to close it.
Tentatively, he steps towards me.
“There’s no milk,” I say.
“It’s okay.” He soothes. He’d better not laugh. If he does, I might kick him next.
I take a deep breath to regroup, and find my ice cream.
It’s all Aunt Flo. She’s making me crazy.
Because the only thing worse than waiting for Aunt Flo is when Aunt Flo is late.
photo credit: nostalgictelevision.blogspot.com