Signs, Signs, Everywhere There‘re Signs
Even if I didn’t know the arrival of my period was imminent, I would know. The signs are apparent; a smidgen more effort required to zip my pants, a small colony of zits residing on my chin, my breasts testing the endurance of the Lycra in my bra and, oh, I just got all weepy at the thought of the Man-Cub turning eight this weekend. Yep, Aunt Flo is definitely heading my way for a visit.
Although, in all honesty, the whole Man-Cub turning eight thing would still be my undoing even if I weren’t riding the Hormone Express to Hell. I mean eight! My baby! How is that even remotely possible? I swear it was just yesterday that he was a tiny infant with chubby little baby cheeks and serious regurgitative issues which, come to think of it, I don’t actually miss all that much. But, still! Now he’s going to be all… independent. What if he turns sassy (like his sister)? How will I cope with the eye roll times two? Most importantly, how will my heart ever recover the first time that he actively searches for a hole to fall into when I try to kiss him goodbye at school?
And, please, don’t tell me that, since the beginning of time, mothers the world over have survived this. Knowing that little Thorg’s mom probably burst into tears the day that he turned his back on her kisses when she dropped him off at hunting camp, doesn’t really console me.
It may amuse me, though.
Also amusing to me is the fact that spell-check wanted to change Thorg into thong and…did cavemen even wear underwear? I think, not.
It suddenly occurs to me, with the Man-Cub turning eight; we may be that much closer to him understanding the necessity of changing his underwear on a daily basis.
Eight just might be my new favorite number.