Julie Jay: How Frozen and Girls Aloud announced my perimenopause diagnosis

A geriatric pregnancy will almost certainly result in parenting small children through the perimenopause- and it’s not for the faint of heart

When the medics sat me down and talked me through the potential risks of a geriatric pregnancy, they failed to mention the major risk: that you may be inadvertently setting yourself up for an explosive combination of toddlerdom and perimenopause. Picture: iStock

Pass our home on any given day these last few weeks, and you might bear witness to high-pitched howls, unprovoked tears, and heightened emotions. You may be forgiven for assuming that it’s the children who are responsible for the erratic playlist emanating from the open windows. After all, at various intervals throughout the day, Kelly Clarkson, the Frozen soundtrack, and Girls Aloud all may be heard blaring, but in fact it is the mother of the home who is to blame for the musical medley. A medley announcing the arrival of peri, peri, perimenopause.

When the medics sat me down and talked me through the potential risks of a geriatric pregnancy, they failed to mention the major risk: that you may be inadvertently setting yourself up for an explosive combination of toddlerdom and perimenopause, a recipe for Spotify algorithm disaster and a time that will almost certainly involve you texting your mother once again to find out what time you were born. Yes, I’ve been finding my birth chart again, which means it’s not going well.

At first, I was in denial about the life stage I am at. I ignored the physical symptoms for a long time, and the main reason I went to my doctor for a little bit of help last week is that I didn’t like how impatient I had become with the kids. The day I said, ‘If the arguing doesn’t stop, I am turning this car around,’ I knew it was time to seek professional advice, because this is the first step on a slippery slope that culminates with leaving your teenage child in a supermarket car park in France when you are forced to escalate your threats as the years go by.

Strangely, one good thing which has come out of my current hormonal imbalance is that it has made me more empathetic to my kids’ big feelings in a way that nothing else has. When they have got upset over trivial things in recent weeks, I’ve got upset with them, which has been easy, given I have been up most nights drenched in sweat and questioning my life choices, namely, purchasing a duvet with a ridiculously high tog count.

Armed with an oestrogen spray and progesterone tablets, my main challenge has been to hide the stash out of reach of my two children, aged three and six, who, unfortunately for me, are both climbers of the ‘I might scale the Empire State Building just for the craic of it’ variety. I thought I had found just the place - on top of my wardrobe, way up high, but somehow the oestrogen spray must have become dislodged, because this morning, to my perimenopausal horror, I found the youngest guy assembling it on the floor.

My heightened emotional responses immediately got even more heightened, and I dived to get it off him quicker than a Premier League footballer in extra time.

As I stuffed the oestrogen into my car’s glove compartment, I considered the implications of my boys accidentally spraying themselves with it. Would they become more like the little girls I know, making them easier to manage.

My little boys’ friends who are girls are more than happy to colour for hours on end, love organised fun and will happily kick a ball and at least try to avoid breakable items while doing so. Most of them love tea parties and sparkles and pink fluffy pens.

Do all girls love these things? Of course not. But all the little girls in my life seem to. Suddenly, the penny drops that maybe it would be no harm if the boys did happen upon the oestrogen spray on occasion. Not to the extent that we would end up watching Frozen on repeat, but at least enough that we could start wearing violet T-shirts again, which Number One recently referred to as a ‘girls’ colour. (Note to self, I must start introducing him to the teachings of Simone de Beauvoir sooner rather than later).

I know there is no easy time to have a baby. I also know there is no comparison between having kids at an age where you are somewhat older and have all your schooling done, a life lived, and some semblance of a support network, and having a baby as a young person with none of those advantages.

I feel lucky to be a mother, even on the days when I am an emotional wreck, or too hot, or my period is all over the shop, and the pouring of salt into a dishwasher pushes me over the edge. (I know my ancestors spent their lives fishing in the open Atlantic, but all the bending just feels so laborious, especially when I’ve just got a Shellac manicure.) I’m not about to crib about me going through the change while the kids are also going through their changes, because I still can’t believe I get to call these two little people mine.

Even on the days that my hormones have me crying over videos where gorillas are reunited with the former wildlife conservationists who raised them, even in these moments, the kids bring me back to earth. Admittedly, it is usually by turning off Frozen, but still. Overall, it’s safe to say that even when the hormones and feelings are raging, when it comes to being their mammy, it’s truly a peri peri good time indeed.