Rejoice! For on the Seventh Day, She Rested

Monday, it's another Monday. And Mondays are hard, aren't they?

But this is not just any ol' Monday. There's a whole host of things that are different about this day, including, but not limited too:

• This is the Monday following the time shift here in the United States (well, most of them). Always a wonky day. 

• This is the Monday before US Election Day - which is a whole ball of angst-producing wax alone. 

• As it happens, my little Rebels have school today, and are off tomorrow, back for 2 days and off for Veterans Day on Friday. Add this to the time shift, and I'm in for a long week in the parenthood department. 

• This is the Monday after the NYC Marathon, which I am proud to say my husband not only ran, but crushed. First marathon for a 47 year old dude, and he did it with an average mile of just under 10 minutes. 

• My husband and I happen to have a date tonight, to go see Lee Child be interviewed by someone from Vogue at Random House. There'll be yummies to nosh and wine, and all very lovely. I'm excited, I am... but... 

• I have an emotional hangover. Why? Well, partially because of all the stuff I just listed. Mostly because as long as my husband's day was yesterday, by the time he came home I felt like I'd run a marathon. 

So what is an "emotional hangover?" I don't even know if it's a thing other people say, but for me, it's the feeling of having been through the wringer, and just feeling worn out from all the feelings. Does that even make sense? I don't know. 

See, yesterday I had a plan, an expectation of how I could let kids do their thing in the morning while I did some work. Then we would go have frozen yogurt for lunch, watch their dad pass by and cheer for him in the marathon, and then we'd scoot back home, and frolic or something. Ok, I didn't plan what we'd do, but I really did plan this fun "outing." It would only take us around the block, but it was so much winning for all of us. 

Needless to say, things didn't go as planned. Lots of reasons, mostly irrelevant. 

The relevant bit is that I found myself standing on the sideline, 3 people back from the fence, knowing my husband would never see my 5'2" shortness where I was. My kids were trying to stay excited, but they couldn't see any of the runners. My son started asking to go get fro-yo every 90 seconds. My daughter decided she didn't want to sit in the stroller she insisted she needed, but she did want to stand ON it. I was getting the side-eye from some of the other spectators, and one woman decided to be outright confrontational. 

I just wanted to see my husband. I wanted to hug him over the sideline fence, kiss him, maybe take a silly selfie, and send him on his way. 

As my daughter teetered on the stroller that I held balanced with one hand, while trying to track his position on the race app, and my son whining and complaining and knocking the phone to the ground... My anxiety went through the roof. 

I was shaking. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to grab the kids and leave, but I didn't want to miss seeing my husband. I wanted my kids to see their daddy doing this amazing thing. I didn't want anyone to be disappointed. Which included me. 

So I hung on. I got angry. Because not having control and having to fake it pisses me off. Because the only way I can get back in control is to fight through the fight or flight response. 

Once you've climbed on that roller coaster, it's hard to make it stop. 

I'm fighting for my life, I'm fighting to find my calm, I'm fighting mad, I'm fighting sleep, I'm fighting the need to crawl back into a hole. I'm fighting to find normal again. 

For me, that's the worst part of my anxiety. It makes me... mean. Which makes it worse, because I despise who I am when I'm freaking out. Even if I look perfectly normal. 

It so fucking exhausting. 

So today, I'm spent. Today, I cannot think clearly. I cannot focus. I cannot... I just can't. 

And you know what? I'm not gonna. 

Today I will rejoice in feeding myself. I will revel in a quick shower. I will take care of the physical, and let the brain (try to) rest. 

What do you fear you could endure?

What is your biggest fear? There's an interesting question for someone who struggles with anxiety. My mind immediately jumps to Franklin D. Roosevelt's first inaugural address: 

"...let me assert my firm belief that the only thing we have to fear is fear itself -- nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed efforts..." 

It turns out, however, there is one thing I fear more than my own fear. A few summers ago I came face-to-face with my fear. I'd love to say I overcame it, but... 

This was nothing like meeting a tarantula, although my whole life I have been petrified by spiders. Literally, if confronted by one, even the itsy-bitsiest of arachnids can send me into heart-pounding, frozen in place, panic. Unlike my friend Lola, I'm not concerned about them laying eggs in my mouth, or accidentally eating them, or even being bitten. The entirety of them being just freaks me the hell out. 

Logically, I know they serve a greater good, so I do my best to live and let live. If a spider is in my space, I can break through my panic to capture it and set it "free." Sure, there'll be a tremendous amount of squealing and running in circles shouting "ewwwww," but I'm a mom. Mom's get shite done. 

Now, if you ask others what their biggest fears are, I'd wager many will admit they fear death on some level. Particularly as we embrace the realities of parenthood, the idea of a premature death can be terrifying. 

While I get that, personally I've reached an age where my own bodily harm and questions about my mortality are frightening only because I am afraid what my loss would mean to my children and my husband. 

My husband, on the other hand, now we've come round to where my deepest fear comes from: his death. Even writing about this creeps me out, in a superstitious way. 

Because, the thing is, I saw it happen. One day, 16 months ago, I watched in horror as my tall, strong, stoic husband slowly collapsed to the floor of a toy store. For reasons that are still a medical mystery, he had a full body grand mal seizure. 

During those long minutes I held on to his hand as he convulsed, soothing him and begging him to stay with me. His eyes rolled back, blood eventually ran out of his mouth, and as his body relaxed in it's unconsciousness, I had a just enough time to imagine what life would be like for me, for my children, if we lost this man. 

I have never been so terrified in all my days. 

Would we endure? Of course, I know we would. As I know my loved ones would go on should a dire fate befall me. 

But if you're asking what I fear more than anything? 

To endure a life without my husband. 

Join me all November long for new posts as part of National Blog Posting Month. 

Lost Fox Hunting

Alright, I'm a military brat. We fall into 2 categories - the ones that care about having stuff, and the ones that don't. For me, all my things make me feel at home, even when I know its just stuff. I'm the creepy Junk Lady muppet at the end of Labyrinth. Seriously, I'm practically a hoarder. I don't trash things until I'm damn sure I'm never gonna need it again. Or no one I know will ever need it again. And if anyone, anywhere, maybe can use it, I'm donating it.

The Junk Lady from Labyrinth

Really. I have a storage unit that can stand as testimony to this. I have had things in storage since 2004. We aren't going to talk about the money lost there, ok? This ain't about that.

I know this about myself. Those who love me know this about me. Sister Cat once spent an entire day helping me sort through my childhood stuff to find what was precious and worth holding onto vs. what was trash. It was damn near the HARDEST thing I've ever done. HARDER THAN LABOR. Seriously. See, I couldn't displace it because the pain was in my soul, not my body.
Am I nuts? Maybe but whatever, this isn't about that either.

This is not to say that I don't ever lose things. I sure do. And when I do, it's usually an item of crazy importance or value. A brand new iPhone - yep, lost one of those. Several hundred of dollars in CA$H, yes. I don't want to talk about. Suffice to say: When mama fucks up, she does it big. And it is devastating to me in so many ways - so, ya know, I go pretty far to avoid it.

You know who does lose things? Kids. It's the way it is, and the way they learn valuable life lessons, I guess. Oh man, it kills me every damn time one of my kids misplace something. I have gone searching for lost loveys all over stores and neighborhoods. I know how devastating it is to me and I want to spare them, and me, the pain. For a while my son had a really bad habit of throwing things when we were out & expecting them to come back. Too much Toy Story, probably. He believes his toys will find a way to get home. They didn't & he's gotten better about doing it. Lesson learned.

I'm being honest here, so let's also say I'm a little OCD about their toys. Maybe that's an understatement. It drives me INSANE when we go to play with something and it's not all there, and then in that moment its a panic & Boy is whining or Girl is repeating the same request over and over. My head just started thumping on one side with remembered anxiety.

When we go out there are things that do not leave the house. At this point in our lives they are too easily lost or fought over in public play grounds and, again, I no longer want to spend my day retracing my steps for something that fell off the stroller tray when (God forbid) I wasn't looking. Or that becomes cause for my son to beat yours up in the sandbox. I don't have the patience for that sort of thing. Control issues? Check.

So as I go along about my day I'm always keeping an eye on the Special Toys. The current loves of my children's lives. Frequently, when I see them discarded out of the way, I'll scoop them up and put them on a dresser or in the bed. Because ultimately it is easier for me. If my kid is whining about where his favorite dinosaur is, I can tell him it's on his bed. Problem solved. I don't have to go searching while his crazy gets out of control & my patience wanes.

But hey, that is my JOB. I'm an at home mommy. My job is to know which things are important today & where they are. Pretty much at all times. I patrol my apartment like a prison guard, counting inmates & watching for new gang members. It is not my husband's job. I get that. He doesn't have the time or patience to pay attention to those details in the same way I do, because he has 2 buildings to keep an eye on all day, while I'm with the 2 kids.

Which is I why I shouldn't be so annoyed by what happened last night. For those who aren't friends on Facebook, I will explain. I left the apartment at 5:30 for yoga. When I got back about 8:30 it was bedtime for kiddos. Only no Foxy was to be found. We searched, nothing. Got the kids in bed. Searched again. Nowhere. This is not possible. She must be here somewhere. They didn't go out. No one came over. All I kept thinking was, "How could he have let Foxy get misplaced??!!"

Mama Foxy & Lil Foxy

If you don't know already, Foxy is Winter Girl's little lovey. Only about 5" high, and easily held & cuddled by my wee girl. She is the baby of a set from Ikea. Girl LOVES her. She is the Velveteen Rabbit of our home - Foxy is most certainly Real.

She has gone missing before. A couple of weeks before Christmas. My husband and I were both confident Foxy had not left the apartment. After we tore the place apart and couldn't find her, we had to reluctantly conclude she'd been been lost while everyone was distracted on a walk to the car.

Again, being honest, I was probably more upset than Winter Girl. She looked, and asked for Foxy, but she was fairly satisfied with Mama Foxy at bedtime and other small companions throughout the day.  About a week later - when life had started to move on without mention of Foxy - my husband found her where he had apparently stashed her leaving that morning - IN HIS COAT POCKET. Seriously??!! Buttmunch. But ok she was found

When it came to Girl's love for Foxy, well, absence certainly made the heart grow fonder.  Now when we are getting her in the stroller, Girl will ask for Foxy if she's not already clinched in a little chubby fist. When Foxy falls/is thrown out of the crib, there is a clear wail of "MOMMY - I NEED FOXY!"

So naturally, I tore the apartment upside down this morning. Every drawer, every bin, every closet. Nothing.
Until 5 minutes ago.
With renewed purpose I took a break from writing this rant to check in all the toy bins again. And damned if I didn't find her! Way in the back of the basket of blocks. I don't know how either my husband or I could have missed her there. It's not like she blends in - she's orange and plush, for Pete's sake.

Unless... No, I'm not going to even type that... Let's just say maybe I've been watching a little too much Toy Story too.