Yep, it's that time of the month.

I know it’s November. And not only should I be giving a NaNo update, but I should be posting about what I’m thankful for. And let me state for the record that there is much for which I am thankful. However, as it happened, Thanksgiving and Black Friday also landed right smack dab on the wrong days of the month for me this year. You know those two emotionally charged days where you're not sure you're going crazy or if you have PMS? Yeah. That made for a fabulous Thanksgiving experience this year, let me tell you.

Sometimes it’s awesome to be female. There are days when my job as a mom is so fantastically awesome, there are no words to describe it. My friends, my family, my experiences, my joys, my kids, my husband, all of these things can combine into a perfect whole once in a while that make life worth it. And then… well… then there are other times where it’s really not so awesome to be female. And by not awesome, I mean NOT awesome.

I have five daughters. And let me tell you, once a month I feel very sorry for my husband and my son. A veil of emotional darkness descends over everything, making it difficult to paste on a smile and find the joys that can normally be found in both small and large moments.

At my house, we refer to it as the visit by the red fairy. I know some who refer to this event as their monthly friend. Why?? There is nothing even remotely friendly about this! And some others who state their monthly present has arrived. Seriously? This is a gift? Ok, sure, it’s a gift from the same sadistic fairy that put the curse on Sleeping Beauty.

I would liken this monthly event to a visit from a dreaded relative, except that I don’t have any relatives I like less than the red fairy. Her visits are expected and tolerated with 800mg ibuprofen, Midol, and various essential oils. Generally we are prepared for her arrival in advance. The few times that she’s shown up early, I’m not even sure I have words to describe the panic and screeches when the needed supplies are not in place or are out of stock. Given the amount of supplies we go through, there are certain companies that should be sending me Thank You cards, or at the very least a Christmas Card once a year.

For three of us, this monthly visit is spent curled up in a ball trying to ignore the fact that our female bits have mutinied and are trying to chew their way out. For the one odd-ball, she gets a minor twinge, uses a couple medium flow items for a couple of days, greets the red fairy with a smile, a hug, and a wave goodbye for next time. This daughter raises an eyebrow at the rest of us, pretty sure we’re all crazy and just really big whiners.

Ok, I admit it, I’m a big whiner. I don’t like pain. Neither do I like the idea that there’s an alien trying to burst out of my abdomen any second. With the amount of blood loss, it might be prudent to partner with a blood bank for future transfusions. Or maybe one day we’ll wake up and have become vampires. You know, that could be why we crave red meat like mad. Top a medium-rare steak with chocolate, and I’m good.

I think it’s appropriate that the essential oil that helps me the most is called Dragon Time. Yep. Totally appropriate. The other one that my husband kind of throws at me like he’s pulling a pin on a grenade before running away from my following explosion is called Progessence Plus. It’s a kind of progesterone / frankincense mixture. Takes the fight and the grumpies right out for a while, while insinuating I’ve become some creature. (Yes, yes, I know, frankincense is good, it’s from the bible. Sue me, but I think it sounds an awful lot like Frankenstein, to which I relate much more at this time of the month.) Although convincing me to be rational about needing it kinda takes some doing.

Why am I writing about this? Well, it’s taboo, which automatically makes me want to address it. It’s a battle I fight every month that leaves me feeling like both attacker and defender within my skin.

Loud noises, kids fighting, kids wanting too many hugs, or just the idea of having to cook dinner are all things that tip my emotional scales off balance, making me either burst into tears or wish I had a flame thrower.

It’s a very good thing I don’t have one. I usually resort to testosterone flicks or games in which I can blow things up, shoot things, or slap imps so that any violence that wants to spill over is directed at pixels. Thus protecting my family so the kids and hubster end up with the hugs and kisses they need.

And then the visit is over, the pain goes away, and I am back to normal. Laughter and smiles are real, patience returns in abundance, and I no longer have to change my clothes every two hours. It’s an exhausting 3-5 days. I cannot wait for menopause.