As I quipped on Twitter the other day — and that’s pretty much the main thing you can do on Twitter, quip:
3 kinds of menopause. Angry kind. Weepy kind. And chuck the broccoli over yer shoulder into the kitchen when yer son refuses to eat it kind.
Then I added:
Guess which kind I have.
Really, that was a rhetorical question. Thus the lack of question mark. The kids don’t lose any sleep at night wondering which kind of menopause Baba has, either. What I like to think is that they don’t lose any sleep at night worrying about it either.
Fortunately, as all sane people do in intermittently insane situations, we fold whatever wrinkles we can into humor as quickly as possible. So by the end of the evening, this event had taken on the stature of household legend, a standard against which all future outbursts of frustration will likely be judged.
Meanwhile, the girl child decided to issue an all-purpose reminder. Â Her spelling is idiosyncratic (warned you before!), but I think the gist comes across.