New Studies Show Estrogen linked to Mothers' patience for teenage angst............ Warning: Some material may be unsuitable for pre-menopausal mothers

At 2:00 in the morning I have my most profound revelations.

Last night (or rather early this morning) I had an epiphany that could change the way we view menopause and mothering.  I fell asleep at the usual time, book on my chest, glasses askew on my face.  Shortly thereafter I came to the surface just enough to stash my book and glasses, turn off the light and adjust my pillow.   Ahhh....  But then, instead of sinking into REM sleep per usual, I was wide awake like someone had just screamed "FIRE!!"  And what was the first thing that popped into my mind?  My daughter.  My 18 year old, red-headed daughter, who is finishing high school (by the skin of her teeth) and figuring out what next year will bring.  Who has made some choices this year that, on paper sounded fine, grand even.  But in reality did not pan out as promised and have me really concerned.

So I lose sleep. But instead of merely fretting and worrying, I am angry.  Angry because at age 54, I am definitely ready for this to end.  After 23 years of nurturing, soothing, worrying, loving, commiserating, adjusting, psycholigizing, praying, hoping, crying, laughing...  I'm just about out of steam!  I still love my kids dearly.  Still want for them all the things I ever have.  Still rejoice when they are successful and happy and share the times that are disappointing.  But the difference is, when a problem arises that I know will need dissecting, counseling, working through, and loads of patience on my part, what I really want to say is, "GET OVER IT!" I just don't know how many more of these episodes I have left in me.   



The main difference between the me of years past and the me of recent years?  Estrogen.  I had plenty of it back then and I wore emotion on both sleeves.  My mothering style was to drop everything and help with whatever was needed be it a school project, shopping for a dress for the dance, working through an issue with a friend at school, helping with homework or music lesson practice.  Now?  Well - just please, please, get it done - do it well - let me know when it's time to celebrate and I'll be there.  But don't come to me with that face and that attitude that says, "I need fixing."

Because I need fixing.  I need time to remember who I was before all of this.  To return to my marriage, to write, to exercise, to work, to go about my day and my life knowing that I don't have to worry about my kids.

Hah!  Some of you are saying.  You NEVER stop worrying about your kids.  Yes - I know that.  A friend, someone whose kids grew up with mine,  asked me not too long ago, "What is the most surprising thing about being a parent?"  I thought about it for a bit and then answered, "That it's forever - that it never ends."  "Exactly," he replied.  Not a bad thing.  Just a fact.  It is forever.  So - yes - I know that.  That's not what this is about, though.

Others of you with younger kids are probably thinking me the most unfeeling, horrible witch of a mother and that I don't deserve the kids I gave birth to.  That's not it either.  I am a great mother.  I have done a fantastic job with my girls and I have been there for them more than many - to the criticism of some friends and, definitely, of my mother, who came from a very different school of child-rearing.  But they are my greatest work and my pride and I don't regret one minute of sacrifice or struggle.  The wrinkles and the gray hairs don't bother me because I know where they came from and it's just fine with me.  They are my MA, my PhD.  They are the signs of a life well lived and two children who know where - and what - home is.

No.  This is about something else all together.  

Estrogen is the key.  Two years into menopause I am definitely changing in more ways than just physically.  I am drawn to vacation spots and restaurants that are not kid-friendly.  The sight of a runny nose repulses me.  A child's whining voice is like fingernails on a black board (as is the sound of an over-compensating mother, caving to her little brat's whims).  Struggling over which school to send poopsy to is boring.  Just pick one for God's sake.  I've always said, even back when I was estrogen positive, that when our kids are 21, let's talk and see how we did.  But let's not belabor the little things now.  Let's just be there for our kids and do our job as best we can.  Call me whatever you want.  Just get out of my way after you do.

So.  Back to 2:00 in the morning.  Here's the good news.  Although the fact is, clearly, that I still do worry, and the hot flashes are definitely triggered by stress, often having to do with a poor decision - or lack of decision - on the part of a daughter, what I decided to do last night (after reading 3 chapters in my book without getting sleepy, watching an infomercial for a DVD of the Best of the Dean Martin Show, sitting outside my daughter's room for a spell, trying to figure out how best to reach her) was to make a list.  To list my concerns, list the things that I want her to accomplish (her "to do" list if you will) by school's end, and then tuck it under my pillow and go to sleep.

And I decided to go into work late today so that I could wake her up, sit on the edge of her bed and talk with her about some of the things that I'm concerned about, make her breakfast and get her pointed in the right direction.  That's my plan today.  We'll see how it goes.  I may even stroke her forehead as I'm talking to her.  Hmmm..  maybe there is a little bit of estrogen left.  Perhaps levels are higher in the morning. 


But this can't be a long drawn-out affair.  On a break from writing this, I read a timely piece in the NYTimes Magazine by Judith Warner about this generation we boomers have raised of entitled, over-confident whiners.  It starts out a bit negatively, indicating that we may have messed up, giving our kids a false sense that everything is going to be okay, citing examples of kids whose parents made sure they got trophies for sports events just because they showed up, challenged anyone who criticized their children, continue to help them with college papers and contest bad grades, raising, as she calls them, "a nation of wimps."   It ends on a more positive note, but I am appalled by the former.

So - as I dress for success at work, I am also donning my Drill Sergeant cum Mom attire and getting ready to go in for operation "Get Your Life Together."  It's tough love, it's estrogen-free, and it's time.  For both of us.