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I love being a woman.

The cramps, backaches, headaches, pimples, bloating. The if-you-even-come-near-my-boobs-I-will-knock-you-the-eff-out-because-they're-killing-me days. Sorry, kids, no hugs from Mommy today. The gas. Then again, with all this gas, maybe you don't really want a hug. The forgetfulness. The cravings and newly sprouted chin hairs. Oh, look! That's a really long one! Crying my eyes out because of a sad story or video. Those poor puppies!! Then realizing the tissue box is empty and no one got out a new one or wrote it on the grocery list and now I'm super pissed because Seriously! How hard is it to write it down when you use the last one? and How am I the only one who can ever do that?! and Do you WANT me to go on strike because I will?!! I totally will! You do not want me to go on strike. And it's back to crying because now I feel bad because I just remembered that the Girl is sick and probably used up all the tissues with her poor, red, little faucet of a nose and she didn't have the energy to get up and write it on the list ... and I'm a terrible mother that I forgot about that and I didn't even make her soup ... and I was yelling at her in my head when she was so sick and I'm an awful person ... and I'll just write it on the list myself and maybe I'll get her favorite cereal to make it up to her. So, yeah, the run-on mood swings. And, of course, the week-long blood-letting.

Where was I? Oh, yes. I love being a woman.

We also have the annual humiliation and discomfort visit with the gyne. You know how it goes. Conversation and examination. Talk and poke. Chit chat and hit that.

Gyne: "So, how are the kids? Everybody doing well? Can you scooch down the table some more?"

Me: (scooching 'til I feel like my entire nether region is dangling off the table) "They're fine. He'll be in high school next year, so that's --"

Gyne (interrupting): "Sorry, I need you to move down more. So, high school, huh? That's a big adjustment."

Me: (more scooching. seriously??) "Yep. Hard to believe it's already here. I remember kindergarten so clearly."

Gyne: "Yes. I know what you mean. Mine are in college. You're going to feel a little pressure. Deep breath in and blow it out." Craaaaaannnnnnkk. "Perfect."

Me: (Groan) "Wow. College. I can't even wrap my mind around that idea yet."

And so it goes for what feels like a little bit of forever when in reality, it's about 10 minutes. It just seems to last so much longer with all the stretching of the cervix and groping of the bewbies. So. Much. Longer. Glad it's only once a year.

I love being a woman.

If you're an extra lucky lady, you also get to have a yearly round with the old Smashinator. The Squish-o-rama. The Pancake Maker. The Boobie Press. Good times for the girls!

I love being a woman.

Fun.

Yay.

Wahoo.

Pew. Pew.

(Those were my confetti cannons celebrating all my lady parts and the joys of womanhood.)

And now let's finish out this party time with Kool and the Gang because it's time to ceeeeellllebraaaaaate good times. You know what?! NO! There will be no singing. Not today. Absofrickinlutely no. Just give me the damn quart of Ben and Jerry's, a spoon, some Ibuprofen, the remote, some tissues and leave me alone to watch the Hallmark channel.

I'll be back to my usual self again in a few days. And then we get to start the process all over again.

I love being a woman.

- Jennifer Hicks

Jennifer Hicks is a mom, wife, dork and fluent speaker of sarcasm. She has spent some of her adult years as a stay-at-home-mom and others as a high school teacher. She writes about the good, the bad, the ugly and sometimes the very funny as the mother of two teenagers at her blog, Real Life Parenting. She was the Blogger Idol 2013 runner-up, has been featured on Parents Space and Bonbon Break, and is a contributing author in the book The HerStories Project: Women Share the Joy, Pain, and Power of Female Friendship.