Snippets of Sunshine from Stella: P.M.S.

It was one of "those" days. Three children who had the summer off, with a bad case of the I want! My name had been called so many times, my jaw clenched whenever they uttered a word that began with the letter "M." I had undergone my monthly personality change from Suzy-the-
Housewife to Atilla-the-Housewife. While I maintained the premise I had things pretty much under control, as much as one can, I could still probably best be described as pretty snippy. I had
changed right before their eyes, slowly at first and then more rapidly as the day progressed. My nine-year-old was sulking because I wouldn't let him watch music videos to which the words
were unintelligible but the actions weren't. Our middle child, the actor, and someday to be academy award winner (if he kept up at the rate he was going) felt we needed the services of a
social worker because I wouldn't allow him to eat Oreos for breakfast instead of yogurt and a bagel. All of this was capped off by an angry five-year-old, she felt I had stopped having children after her just so the odds would be uneven. Who would play happily with her dolls if I had just
loved her enough to have another girl. I've tried reasoning with that child, explaining that another sibling could just as easily have been a boy. She informed me she was sure if she prayed hard enough, the baby would have turned out to be a girl. What can I say, oh me of little faith! I didn't have the heart to tell her a sixth pregnancy rated somewhere between a sex change operation
and a lobotomy with me. (She was also angry that her oldest brother and sister had grown up and moved away.) I wondered if five was too soon to see signs of P.M.S. and marveled with the new insight how anyone could even questions my moods. The day whirled by and things eventually
reached an acceptable level of chaos. Differing versions of "I'm hungry" were temporarily pacified with a pre-dinner snack, as legs either thumped and bumped against kitchen chair legs or alternately swung in midair to an inner rhythm, different for each child no doubt. Sleeved arms
wiped hair from eyes, sweat from the toil of play and an occasional nose. It was during this interlude, my seven year-old asked innocently, "What is P.M.S.?" As my mind raced to think of
an appropriate response, my nine-year old leaned across the table, looked his brother straight in the eye and knowingly said, "It means we leave Mommy alone," and went back to his snack. I
heard a small "Oh" from across the table. Now why didn't I think of that?

repeated by popular request
©1999 Judy Jones
Illustrated by Linda Hedinger