Once upon a time, I thought the toddler years were the emotional peak of parenting. Silly me. That was just the warm-up act. Now, here I am, squarely in my mid-40s, experiencing the joys of perimenopause while parenting three tweens entering puberty. That’s right. One body. Three hormones. Five moods before breakfast. Welcome to the real Hunger Games.
They’re growing hair in new places. So am I.
They’re moody, irrational, and always hungry. So am I.
They’re crying over weird things, like a dropped Cheez-It. So am I.
We are not thriving, friends. But we are surviving—and sometimes that’s enough.
Chapter One | Hormones Have Entered the Group Chat
Let me set the scene: I’m standing in the kitchen, sweating for no reason (was it the coffee? the stress? the molecular density of air?). Jase walks in, grunts something indecipherable, and immediately turns on me for looking at him. Sadie flounces in next, slamming the fridge, crying because we’re out of string cheese. Meanwhile, Henley is in her room journaling about how much she hates us all.
And me? I’ve been awake since 3:47 a.m., wondering if I’m dying or just hormonal, debating the existence of chin hairs, and googling “why does my body smell like a campfire?”
We are one small estrogen tremor away from calling it a day by 9:00 AM.
Chapter Two | My Mood Swings Brought Friends
It’s honestly hard to say whose mood swings are worse. Mine, which come with hot flashes and mild rage? Or theirs, which come with TikTok slang and tears about math class? My tween’s emotional range in one hour: giggling hysterically, singing Gracie Abrams, dead silence, and an aggressive door slam. Me, in that same hour: confident, weepy, energized, foggy, snacky, filled with dread, inexplicably grateful.
It’s like living with emotional funhouse mirrors. We’re all just trying to make it to bedtime without throwing a remote or crying into a quesadilla.
Chapter Three | The Smells
This cannot be skipped. Puberty smells like a locker room full of sour patch kids. Perimenopause? Like sleep sweat, old perfume, and existential panic. I spend my days lighting candles, spraying deodorant into the air like Febreze, and begging everyone to shower—even myself.
“Did you use soap?”
“Yes!”
“The real kind?”
“WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN, MOM?!”
Chapter Four | The Beauty of Mutual Awkwardness
The upside? We’re all feeling weird in our bodies, so there’s a strange solidarity. I’ve stopped trying to hide my chin hairs. They’ve stopped trying to hide their armpit fuzz. We all look mildly feral and deeply confused, and it’s kind of beautiful in a post-apocalyptic sort of way.
Sometimes, we talk about it. We normalize the weirdness. Other times, we just share a knowing glance while passing each other on the stairs—me in my hoodie, them in theirs—both of us gripping a snack and barely holding it together.
Chapter Five | What Helps
Am I a parenting expert? Nope. I’m a woman in midlife, wearing a heating pad like a belt while Googling “when will my kids be nice to me again?” But I’ve picked up a few things that help us survive the day without imploding:
1. Laugh. Hard. Often. Together.
We’ve developed a dark sense of humor. “Mom’s crying again!” “Tween rage level: DEFCON 3!” We laugh because we must. Humor turns chaos into connection.
2. Lower the Bar. Then Lower It Again.
Some days, “surviving” means cereal for dinner and everyone in their own corners by 7:00. That’s okay. This isn’t the season for perfection—this is the season for showing up.
3. Normalize the Weird.
We talk about body changes. I tell them how I’m aging. They tell me what’s happening at school. I say “vaginal dryness” and they pretend to die, but secretly? They’re listening. And that matters.
4. Model Self-Compassion.
When I’m irritable, I admit it. When I forget things, I own it. When I need space, I take it. They’re watching how I treat myself—and learning to treat themselves the same way.
5. Have Snacks. Always.
Puberty runs on carbs. So does perimenopause. When in doubt: string cheese, popcorn, and frozen egg rolls.
Chapter Six | It’s Not Just Chaos—It’s a Mirror
The hard truth? Watching them grow up while my body starts to change again is…weird. It’s like I’m traveling backward while they’re sprinting ahead. I’m grieving what I used to be, even as I celebrate who they’re becoming.
But in that overlap, there’s something kind of sacred. All 4 of us are shedding our skins. We’re in between. We’re becoming.
And as frustrating and sweaty and emotional as it is, there’s a kind of magic here—where their beginning meets my middle.
Chapter Seven | The Other Side of This
There will come a time, I imagine, when the fog lifts. When their hormones settle and mine quiet down. When the house doesn’t feel like a live wire of emotions. And when that day comes, I hope we’ll remember what it felt like to be so tender, so undone, so real with each other.
I hope they remember that their mom wasn’t perfect, but she was there—with the ice packs, the midnight pep talks, the snacks, the grace.
And I hope I remember, too—that we didn’t just survive this season. We learned how to be softer. Kinder. Stronger. Together.
Final Thoughts (and a Prayer)
If you, too, are raising hormonal creatures while perimenopause takes you hostage: I see you. If your house feels like a soap opera written by gremlins: same. If you’re just trying to make it to bedtime without burning your house down: solidarity, sister.
You’re not crazy. You’re just human. And this wild, hormonal mess? It’s shaping you both.
So go ahead. Cry in the closet. Laugh at the chaos. Take the nap. Eat the chips. Text your husband something completely unhinged. And then get up and do it again tomorrow.
Because we’re not thriving. But we are growing. And sometimes? That’s even better.
Fry, Party of Five 