Neither monsters nor martyrs be: lessons on motherhood from my menstrual cycle

Thanks to the science of charting, I knew enough to pull on my red undies this morning, and toss a couple pads in my bag before heading out for a day on the town. Sure enough, my flow showed as predicted, and I was pleased to be prepared, even if for once I was hoping to be wrong.

Mostly, I’m fine with cycling and menstruating. The way my genitals change over the course of the month — dormant, dry, raised and closed, through wet, open, swollen and fertile and back again — never ceases to fascinate me. I like my cloth pads, enjoy making them and using them. I’m in no way ashamed of menstruation, or the cyclical nature of my hormones and their affect on my mood and being; I believe I carry none of the patriarchal conceptions of menstrual or cervical fluids as dirty or disgusting.

But sometimes, I just get tired of it. Especially with 9-10 day luteal phases (standard being 12-16), meaning even fewer opportunities for deliciously natural PIV sex (that being, let me be frank, my prime motivator for charting), and 26-28 day cycles of which 6-7 days are spent bleeding, even menstruation-enthusiast me gets weary of the more-than-monthly bleed, and the associated irritations, discomforts, and duties. It doesn’t matter how much we love something, everything complex has its downsides, its annoyances, its downright drags: menstruation, breastfeeding, baby-care, school, blogging; everything.

I was thinking of this just this afternoon, bloody pad between my legs and crying toddler in my arms. We had been in downtown Portland most of the day, chasing him around Powell’s City of Books between making sure he didn’t kill himself in his enthusiasm for the MAX trains. He was ready for a nap, and I was beyond ready for him to nap, and could have used a quiet lie down myself. When he woke up when we tried to transfer him from the car to the bed, after three minutes’ nap, he was cranky and I was crankier.

I love my child with all my heart. I love spending time with him. Although finally getting to the point where I’d jump at the chance to have an evening away with my beloved, and having been in school for nearly a year because I started needing outside pursuits again, I’m perfectly happy spending nearly his every waking moment together. But I need some down time now and then.

That’s not exactly a revolutionary confession; at the moment, it seems, there’s a whole industry based on the “bad mom” who revels in revealing all the sordid sides of parenting. This is in direct reaction to the previous “good mom”, who never admitted anything was less than perfect.

I’ve never been happy with or identified with either of these stereotypes, because both of these are false constructs of the patriarchy, both serve its goals: the “perfect mom” by raising women who parent up on unreachable pedestals, inhuman, with all us mere mortals able to be treated as rubbish when we inevitably fail to achieve those heights; the “bad mom” by disregarding the blissful moments of parenting, and reducing its rewarding toil to fodder for fecal jokes, deriding those of us who would take seriously this stage of our and our children’s lives.

The “perfect mom” would have me write off, suppress, any frustrations around being always on call. The “bad mom” would have me mix a martini and let him squawl, or book a cruise to the Caribbean and abandon him with relatives. Problem is, I don’t hit the bottle, my momma taught me not to bottle it up, and if I’m going to a tropical beach I can’t imagine leaving him behind.

The thing about the kyriarchy is it dehumanizes us: either we don’t admit to having periods, or believe they’re dirty and work to do away with them. Either we adore our perfect angels, or we barely tolerate the little snots. Either we are martyrs or we are monsters. I’m not going to pop a pill to stop cycling, I’m not going to drug my kid or let him cry-it-out to nap: I can admit I’d like a break, admit and examine my ambivalence, without being a martyr, without being a monster. The kyriarchy is going to try to shove me in to one of those little limiting boxes, but I say no.

When my child wakes up barely after falling asleep, I take a deep breath (let out a few cries of my own), and figure out a way to survive. When my period shows up without having a chance to take advantage of my unmessy infertile phase, I take a deep breath (mutter a few choice curses), and resolve to plan better next month.

Sure, I’d love a break. But this is life: and on the whole, I wouldn’t have it any other way.