The One About Estrogen, Testosterone & Being “Very Forty”

Sometime within the last six months to a year, our dog Truman has begun to develop… tits (teats)? I could imagine this happening to an aging female dog. As a forty-year-old woman myself, I’ve come to view gravity as a hostile opponent rather than a neutral law of physics. But Truman is a male dog, leaving me profoundly confused. Naturally, I turned to Dr. Google, where one theory immediately jumped out: estrogen exposure. The internet claimed that if a male dog licks estrogen cream off someone, he can develop full-blown man-boobs. Now, I don’t use estrogen cream. But—being a woman of "a certain age"—I was recently prescribed estrogen patches after a conversation about perimenopause.

Let’s pause on this whole perimenopause situation.

I recently had to find a new primary care provider. During my very first visit, my new doctor looked at my file, looked at me, and—I kid you not—said, “I’m glad you’re open to discussing perimenopause.”

My internal response? The what and the who now?

When I was approaching forty, it didn’t feel like a catastrophic milestone. Granted, I played the "turning forty" card to milk a trip out of it. I originally envisioned a weekend at a spa—two glorious days to recharge and shamelessly binge Netflix while inhaling an ungodly amount of SkinnyPop. I would have happily settled for a Motel 6 one town over, just far enough that packing up the kids to visit would be too much hassle. Instead, my husband generously surprised me with a trip to London. Feeling thoroughly unworthy of such an extravagant gesture, I hesitated. He quickly assured me, “You only turn forty once,” followed immediately by, “I cannot afford to do this again, so soak it in.” So I did. Truly and completely.

In fact, if not for London, forty didn’t feel any different than thirty-nine. Until that doctor’s visit. Apparently, entering your nineties-nostalgia decade is marked by riveting conversations about irregular periods, rogue chin hairs, mood swings, and hormone patches. Fine. The chat needed to happen, and I can no longer pretend gravity and biology aren't teaming up against me.

Case in point: the other night, my kids requested a living room dance party. Nothing crazy—just your average weeknight breakdancing routine. Dance parties are a staple in our house; it’s the best way to drain their nuclear-level energy on a fall evening once dusk hits at 5:00 p.m. We strip the couches of all cushions, strategically placing them across the floor to minimize ER visits when someone inevitably leaps off the furniture.

During one music video, the dancers started doing the worm. Naturally, my son Cole had to attempt it. Being the sole female in a house full of boys, my opportunities to relate grow fewer by the day. I seized my moment.

“Listen here,” I insisted to their doubtful little faces. “Mom is a pro. I literally did the worm in my wedding dress when I married your dad. Watch!”

In my mind, I was fluid, graceful, effortless. I even mastered the slow descent from a standing position into a floor-rocking slide without anything snapping. Fueled by the genuine awe in their eyes, I did the worm over and over until my husband walked through the door.

“Dad! Look! Mom can do the worm!”

I should have read the panic on his face and quit while I was ahead. Instead, my ego overrode my aching triceps. Watch this, husband. I launched into position, tried to nimbly drop to the floor, and instantly tweaked my back. Instead of a majestic wave, I became a flopping fish out of water.

Mark looked down at me with pure pity. “Hail... you are very forty.”

Now pushing forty-one and fully owning my new demographic, I’ve been reflecting on the year. Things have changed. Mostly superficial things: my forehead has permanent standard-issue stress lines, random hairs sprout overnight, my chest looks tired, and frankly, I’m tired. By my youngest son’s bedtime, it takes every ounce of willpower not to pass out in his twin bed at 7:30 p.m. Meanwhile, my husband operates on a similar sleep schedule and possesses entirely different stamina. Is it a testosterone thing?

Surrounded by a household of men, I’m used to being the odd one out. I’m the only one who can’t walk around shirtless on a hot July afternoon, and the only one who pees sitting down. This unique combination of "possessing chest features" and "lacking a penis" deeply fascinates my sons. They cannot fathom why Mom needs a closed door in the bathroom when they regularly barge in on each other or share a backyard tree after swimming.

And don’t get me started on "that time of the month."

Periods are degrading enough without your male dog fishing used tampons out of the covered bathroom trash and proudly leaving them chewed up on the living room rug—or worse, on your husband’s side of the bed. Living in a frat house of men adds a special layer of surreal humor to standard female biology.

On the flip side, it does make me Queen of the Castle. Being the only female means I occasionally get treated like royalty. Let’s be clear: I don't have footmen kissing my signet ring. Most days I feel like Cinderella. When I'm feeling particularly passive-aggressive, I even belt out the movie soundtrack while scrubbing counter tops:

Cinderelly, Cinderelly / Night and day it's Cinderelly! / Make the fire, fix the breakfast / Wash the dishes, do the mopping...

But then come the quiet moments. The moments where my boys are surprisingly gentle and sweet. Cole will randomly twirl my hair. Theo will compliment my dress. Ethan will notice my nail polish. My husband will pull me close and tell the kids, “Your mom is the absolute best.”

In those quiet beats, I’m glad to be the odd one out.

While the day-to-day administrative chaos of running a home heavy-handedly falls on women, I consider it a privilege to love this chaotic crew. Women bear the mental load because we're built to handle it. It isn't always fair, and it's rarely easy, but showing up is in our DNA.

 Being conscious of my tendency to complain, I recognize that happiness is a choice and, today, I’m choosing to look at things differently. Today, I choose gratitude.

I am grateful I am a woman, a mom, a wife, a sister, an aunt. I am grateful for the loud, chaotic Cinderelly moments, knowing they are temporary and someday, a blink away, the house will be all too quiet and too clean. I am eternally thankful for the private moments where it’s me and my boys, who will put their foreheads against mine and tell me they love me "more than ten years long." I live for the belly laughs and toothless grins, the jam hands and dirty toes, the nights I accidentally fall asleep in their beds or wake up to a little face telling me, “I misseded you.” Good, bad, messy, or exhausted—my family’s unconditional love for me—just as I am—makes me feel like the richest, most royal queen who ever lived.