PMS With No Period and Other Marvels of Breast Feeding.

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PMS with no period.

I have no idea what kind of whack a do hormones are swirling around in my body, but holy God in heaven I am still a raging too much progesterone monster every two weeks with no period to dull the anger.

I stand in front of the baking cabinet shoving chocolate chips down my throat.  I sneak the chips that I have been longing to crunch into my room and eat the whole bag. I am bloated, and evil so I weigh myself everyday and blame my chocolate chip fiasco as the culprit of a 4 pound weight gain.

If my PMS was a super villain she would have fire and ice powers. I can never decided if I want to lite people on fire, or turn them to ice and then shatter them. She would also have every single one of those bad ass jackets the Evil Queen from Once Upon a Time wears, and never leave the house with out red lipstick.

Your Period is all over the place and resembles the ones from your pre birthing adolescents.

I am always regular. it is about the only bodily function I have that comes with  boring regularity. Now a days I watch my due date roll by on my period tracker with not even a drop of blood to let me know there is not an intruder taking up residency in my uterus. I happen to be a touch on the paranoid side.  I anticipate we will be buying lots of the first response three packs while we are breastfeeding.

When my period does make an unscheduled appearance it comes down  with the force of a raging water fall. TMI, but last time it came for a visit a few months ago I was waiting to find a fetus hiding in the debris. I haven’t had these kinds of periods since I was an ignorant teenager  driving around in my big blue Jeep Cherokee with the word princess across the windshield. Most periods before nursing lasted three days, and are such a faint trickle that I silently cried for my aging ovaries.

The Baby tells all your secrets.

Every time I sort of fall off the weight loss wagon and consume too many refined carbohydrates the baby becomes a spit up machine. Every single time.  After a burp I watch him spew breast milk down my shoulder and I know that was from the pizza.

He is a constant reminder that he is what I eat. It is bizarre, and wonderful at the same time. When I am eating a healthy off refined carbohydrate for the most part diet he NEVER spits up, ever. I have been experimenting with this theory for a while. It gave me a valid excuse in my own mind to eat pizza three days in a row. I just told my back fat we had to. It was in the name of science.

 

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