There is this drawer in our pantry that holds dry goods. When you open the door cabinet, there are three drawers, and the top drawer is at chest level. It is the deepest drawer to the top of the cabinet, which makes it perfect for cereal boxes.

In fact, it’s basically the only place we can put cereal boxes and keep them standing up-right instead of having them on their sides spilling out or stuffed into another cabinet in a big, jumbled mess. Often, I will open that cabinet and pull out the cereal drawer to find that it is jammed because cereal boxes have been put in on their side on top of one another, crammed in with olive oil, steak seasoning, boxes of crackers, and bags of chips, etc.

That drawer, which should specifically be used for one purpose, ends up being a dumping ground because it is the first thing you see when you open up the cabinet. When I see this specific mess, it sets off a rage in me. The kind of rage where everything around me slows, my heart pounds, my eyes widen, my teeth clench, and I can hear the operatic voices of “Requiem” by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart echo through the halls as I go to unsheathe my sword and run into battle. Then I realize, I’m just a thirty-seven-year-old suburban housewife, standing in my kitchen.

The Explosion

One night, I came down to the kitchen for a glass of water to find that my boys had cooked eggs before going to bed—with teenage boys, this is not abnormal. I opened the cabinet to clean up some of the condiments that had been left out (rage bubbling) only to find the cereal drawer a mess (vein popping, rage thickening). I picked up one of the cereal boxes that had been laid on its side, and cereal poured out the bottom as it had been jammed upside down (“Requiem” voices at forte). While straightening up the dried mango and bag of almonds in the same drawer I felt a sticky substance all over my fingers. Somebody had put the syrup back in the cereal drawer upside down and open.

I screamed at the top of my lungs. To be clear, no one was hurt, no one was bleeding, but there was syrup in the cereal drawer, and my urge to kill went from a 2 to a 10 . I took everything out, cleaned the drawer, put everything back (loudly), and stormed up the stairs to proclaim the injustice to my husband. “Whoever put the syrup away last, put it away. Upside. Down. And. OPEN!” I was met with little empathy. I sat in my own rage while I scrolled Pinterest for new organization methods until I could see straight, and moved on.

“Getting Older”

In my early thirties, my rage became so obvious and debilitating that I sought out answers. So, it turns out that getting older as a woman can look like this: Feeling sluggish, emotional, short-tempered, and heavy. Ten or more pounds slowly accumulate around all parts of your body like a thick layer of marshmallow fluff. Sex drive is all over the place but mainly looks like, “take me now” in between weeks of “if you touch me, you die.” Thinning hair, wrinkled skin, sagging boobs, and every other detail of your physique that once helped attract a partner has been deemed no longer necessary by mother nature and takes a turn for the meh.

I think we can do better than this.

The Surprise of Rage in Early Motherhood

My first experience with this type of rage wave was when I was about twenty-eight. Charlie was five, and we had just left the pool in our townhome complex after an awesome but hot summer afternoon. We were all exhausted, dehydrated, hot, and probably hungry, and Charlie complained and cried the whole walk home. I can’t remember the exact issue he was protesting, but it had something to do with a beach ball we were carrying back to the house.

I think it was something to the effect of, “I want the beach ball, no I don’t want it! Give me the BEACH BALL! NO, I don’t want THAT beach ball, I Want it!!! I hate that BALL!!” By the time we reached the house, every drop of patience left in me had been expelled, and when we reached the kitchen, he scream-cried again, so, in two swift moves, I placed the beach ball on the kitchen counter, pulled out a large knife and stabbed the beach ball.

This is Not Just an Issue for Moms

This was not my proudest moment as a mother. Charlie and I looked at each other with huge eyes and simultaneously burst into tears. We snuggled, I apologized, and we talked about how to use our words next time. I know I experienced postpartum mood swings with both Charlie and Gus, but this episode was surely the most climactic.

We explain these things to friends and family to be met with, “welp, getting older sucks!” and we turn to the rest of the world to find a few determined practitioners that tell us, “It does not need to be this way!” It turns out that just like many facets of women’s health, there is a huge lack of accessible information that can actually help us feel better.

Did you know that perimenopause can start in your MID-30’s?!?! Why didn’t we learn about that in high school health class? Many of us are still in the thick of popping out babies when we enter the initial hormonal changes of perimenopause that take us straight through to menopause, and there are spotty views on how this stage of our lives should be approached.

If You Know You Know

My health journey and the insanity of the pursuit of feeling normal as a woman is most definitely a conversation for another day. For now, let’s get real for a moment. Have you ever been there? Have you ever felt the undeniable heat of rage bubble inside you or even explode out of you? Have you every reflected on one of these moments only to question, “who was that?” Do you have a cereal drawer or beach ball that almost didn’t make it through an outburst that you never saw coming?

Community and authentic connection for women is important for reasons like this rage thing that many of us can relate to but are afraid to talk about for fear of being labled “crazy” “hormonal” or “a bad mom.”

Let it be known- you are welcome here!!! I have more incriminating stories for you if you need them to feel safe, and I intend to share them as we get to know each other better. Adulting, motherhood, life can be challenging and you are welcome here to process through the hard stuff. May the cereal drawers and beach balls in our lives live on to see another day.