Dear Aunt Flo,

There was a time in my life when I welcomed, hell, rejoiced, your monthly visit. Phew! Sigh of relief. Yes, I’ll have another glass of wine! Then there was that brief time, when I was approaching 30 and realized that we needed to see less of each other, when I cried a little each time you did show up. And then came that day when you took a much-celebrated nine-month sojourn, to where, I don’t know. But I did not miss you and when you did return I was filled with, “Oh. This again. Right.”

We had an on-again, off-again relationship through my 30s when for a second time, you traveled far, far away and my life became overwhelmed by one crying child to join the other one, now whining over the loss of being the sole center of our universe. Their demands completed overshadowed your return. I didn’t have time to give you a second of contemplation. This again? Whatever.

Well, I guess you’ve been sick and tired of being ignored because lately, you’ve become quite the demanding body-guest. I don’t know if it’s the stress or my slow march toward menopause or a combination of both but damn, do you have to open the faucets on every tear-inducing, fury-inciting hormone up to full blast? Now? Of all times? Must you rob me of sleep, make me hot when I should be cold and cold when I should be hot? Must you make the “Mom. Mom? Mom!” that fills my day sound like pins being inserted into my temples? Must you demand so much damn attention?

You arrived a couple of days ago and it took me until today to realize that a good bit of my anger, sadness and “watch out mama’s gonna blow!” has come from your presence. I can tell that you’re starting to pack your bags and at the risk of pissing you off again, I say “Don’t let the door hit ya.” And please, while I want you to come back in about a month, because God knows I’m done with the reason why you wouldn’t come back, I really wish you’d tiptoe and whisper. Rolling in like hells-a-fire and rendering me brainless and an emotional mound of jello isn’t good for me or for those people who have to share this half-a-house.

Love and kisses (well, not really, but if it gets you out the door),

Cynthia