And luckily, my son doesn't know it. Yet. He'll learn it at school probably sooner than I think. And then, I'll get the full force of it. Deservedly so. I wish it weren't true, but dear readers, today I am a bitch. No, make that Bitch. I'm trying like crazy to keep it inside, and not let it come lashing out at my family, but sometimes, my hormones get the better of me, and I get too impatient. Of course, the fact that my son doesn't let me have a f*%$#n phone conversation, or the fact that he waits until I get all the way downstairs, settled into my chair at my computer to yell at the top of his lungs "MOM!" and when I think his yelling in that particular tone must mean that he's bleeding from his eyes, only to discover that all it really means is that I didn't get all the goddamn crust cut off his sandwich, well, I get a little pissy. But still. I hate this feeling, and I hate the way I act, not because it's not called for at times, but because it's so counterproductive. He won't remember that he's being a little terror, he'll remember that I was a great big nasty BEEEEAAAATCH. And more importantly, he won't learn to not do those things. He'll learn that it's okay to react in a way that's completely out of all proportion to what's going on.
So I'm a bitch. And I feel guilty about it. But it'll pass. It always does.
I have to say, having a six year old and being in the throes of perimenopause, it's just kind of a cruel trick of nature.