Hot Flashes & Hot Messes: A Survival Story: Perimenopause, Postpartum, and a Toddler with a Strong Arm

I’m not sure what’s bothering me more these days: the unwelcome hot flashes, my strong-willed toddler, or the fact that my brain seems to have either…broken entirely or hit its maximum storage capacity and is now politely declining any new information.

Like, “Sorry ma’am, memory full. Please delete unnecessary files.”

Cool. Which files? My sanity? My will to fold laundry? My ability to finish a single task?

Because those seem to be the first to go.

If someone had told me ten years ago that I’d be battling postpartum and perimenopause back-to-back in my forties—while also grieving my dad during pregnancy—I would’ve laughed, flipped my hair, and carried on with my well-rested, fully-functioning brain.

But here we are.

First of all, I never imagined I’d be having a baby at 39. (Yes, I know—it’s technically still 30s, but let’s not split hairs. My hormones certainly aren’t.)

Second, I never imagined my dad—who played such a huge role in my older kids’ lives—wouldn’t get to meet my youngest.

And third, I DEFINITELY never imagined gaining fifty pounds while housing a broken internal heater that runs 24/7 like I’m some kind of human crockpot.

Which brings me to the weather…

WHY is it 90 degrees?!

Who approved this?!

We went from cozy 50s and 60s straight into “surface of the sun” in, what, 12 hours?

Whoever is in charge of nature’s thermostat—I just want to talk.

Because there is nothing more humbling than already feeling like a walking furnace…only for the outside world to match your internal chaos. I am sweating, I am confused, and I am questioning every life choice that led me to this exact overheated moment.

And as if that wasn’t enough—enter: brain fog.

Now picture this…

I walk into the kitchen, determined. Focused. Ready to reclaim control of my life.

I open the dishwasher. It’s empty. Great start.

So naturally, I turn on the sink and begin scrubbing the mountain of dishes…that for some reason aren’t already placed into the EMPTY dishwasher.

Don’t ask.

Mid-scrub, the laundry room catches my eye. Like a moth to a flame, I drift over. Start a load of laundry. Feel productive for 3.5 seconds.

Then—

“Oh crap. The dishes.”

I head back…only to notice crumbs on the counter. Well, I can’t ignore that. Obviously. So now I’m wiping down every surface like I’m preparing for a surprise health inspection.

Sink still running. Dishwasher still open.

Halfway through that, a teenager appears—loudly “not telling” on a sibling while absolutely telling on them. So now I’m mediating a courtroom-level dispute that no one asked for.

Meanwhile—

Sink: still running.

Dishwasher: still open.

My sanity: hanging on by a thread.

I finally make my way back into the kitchen…

Only to find my two-year-old has climbed INTO the dishwasher.

The racks are out.

The water is still running.

The laundry now needs to be switched.

The kids are arguing again.

There’s an empty chip bag on the floor.

The dog is staring at me like I’ve personally ruined her entire life by not walking her yet.

And then—BAM.

Hot flash.

I melt into a puddle of overstimulated, slightly damp confusion.

And this is the part where I tell you—my toddler?

He’s not just chaotic. He’s athletic chaos.

This child will find any liquid—water, coffee, juice, milk…he does not discriminate—and sprint through the house dumping it upside down like it’s his full-time job.

And the arm on him?!

We are a soccer family, but I’m telling you right now…this one? He’s going pro in baseball. No question.

Nothing is safe. No one is safe.

Try to stop him—I dare you.

Actually, I triple dog dare you.

And just to be clear—I am NOT a “let them run wild” mom.

I had four kids before this. FOUR. Close in age. Organized. Structured. We had routines. Songs. Clean-up time. Peace.

If they got a timeout, I wasn’t dodging flying objects on my way there.

But this one?

This fiery little Aries came in like, “Respectfully…no.”

Now don’t get it twisted—I adore him. We all do. He’s the baby of the family, the joy, the spark…possibly the CEO of chaos. And yes, I’ve been told we might spoil him a little.

But what even is “too much” when it comes to a baby?

And can you really spoil someone who looks at you like that?

…Okay, writing this out, I see where I might be part of the problem.

Moving on.

Some days are better than others. This level of chaos isn’t constant—but it’s also not rare.

And honestly? I’ve started to make peace with it.

The house isn’t always perfect.

I’m not always put together.

Half the time I’m mid-task, mid-thought, mid-hot flash.

But life is full. It’s loud. It’s messy. It’s real.

And I’m learning—slowly—that I don’t need to make it harder by expecting perfection from myself in the middle of all of this.

Sometimes…

it’s okay to just be.